


on a wire, we were dancing

by eliestarr



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Beach shenanigans, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Undercover as Married, brief mentions of a gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliestarr/pseuds/eliestarr
Summary: “Nevermind. You’re in the middle of a mission, Isa, and you guys can’t—shouldn’t—do anything to compromise that. Aqua would have your head.”“I know that,” Isa huffs.“Great! So it’s fine!”The chipper tone in Ventus’ voice sounds a little forced, but Isa welcomes it all the same, hoping to leech some of that positive energy from his co-worker and friend.“Don’t be awkward!”An echo of footsteps in the courtyard draws Isa’s attention, and he looks up just in time to see Lea jog down the stairs towards him. Today’s hawaiian shirt is a garish yellow, sporting a repeating pattern of dolphins jumping over a curling blue and white wave, and the sleeves are artfully torn off. Isa grimaces.Or, how not to fall in love with your childhood friend turned criminal turned FBI partner while undercover at a couple's retreat: a failed novel.
Relationships: Axel/Saïx (Kingdom Hearts), Isa/Lea (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41
Collections: MoonFire Big Bang 2020





	on a wire, we were dancing

**Author's Note:**

> oh. my. _god_. This has been an absolute labour of love. It was never meant to be this long, but these two literally didn't want to shut up, so here we are! This was so much fun, and I hope everyone enjoys the ride as much as I did. I'd like to say an incredible thank you to nissa/[@nanatsuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanatsuyu), for patiently putting up with editing this monstrosity, and haydar/[@hydrillustraits](https://twitter.com/hydrillustraits) for the stunning piece to accompany this fic. and thank you to the incredible team that put this event together, and drea for being a superstar ♥
> 
> title from _timebomb_ by all time low.

_WELCOME TO DESTINY ISLAND_ _  
_ _SURF AND YOGA RETREAT_

The sign is decorated with bright, happy florals and a painted blue wave. Cheerful, welcoming, and absolutely useless at lifting Isa’s already sour mood by the time he pulls into the resort’s parking lot, knuckles white around the steering wheel of the rental car. 

There’s a tick to his jaw that reads unimpressed, and frustration has coiled uncomfortably in the middle of his spine the whole drive. Isa doesn’t think he’s ever been late to anything in his life before, so it’s with irritation prickling along his skin that he’s rolling up to their destination an _hour_ after their expected check-in time—

—All because Lea had wanted a breakfast burrito. 

_It’s tradition_ , the redhead had insisted, as if he had any room to make demands. And yet Isa had relented, because he knew it was better than listening to Lea’s stomach for six hours.

(Considering he’s spent the drive listening to a symphony of the man’s country playlists, snoring, and a dramatic rendition of the book he’s reading instead, Isa honestly isn’t sure what would’ve been the lesser of two evils.)

There’s a buoyancy to Lea’s step as he clambers out of the car, stretching his arms in an arc towards the warm reds, oranges and yellows painting the sky above them. The roll of Isa’s eyes is carefully masked by his sunglasses, and he collects both their duffels from the trunk. He doesn’t wait until Lea’s done admiring the sunset, merely tosses his bag at him, delighted when he’s rewarded with a slight _oof_ as it connects with the other man’s stomach.

It’s a small and fleeting thing that has Isa chuckling as he locks the car and heads up the white stone path towards the resort’s entrance. He doesn’t look back to see whether or not Lea follows, merely heads directly for the front desk, swapping the keys in his hand for his ID.

“Hi, I have a—” Isa starts, only to be interrupted by the warmth of a hand on the small of his back, as Lea slides an arm around his waist.

“ _We_ have a reservation, under Mr. and Mr. Lyall,” he says jovially, and the clerk across the desk nods, typing it in. Lea shoots him a wink, and in return, Isa offers an icy glare. It thaws before the woman raises her head, smiling brightly.

“Newlyweds?”

“That obvious, huh?” Lea presses closer, dropping his chin to Isa’s shoulder.

“Aww, you guys are adorable,” she coos, before frowning at the screen in front of her. “Oh.”

“Something the matter?” Isa asks, trying to subtly dislodge Lea from his shoulder with a not so gentle nudge. 

“I’m so sorry to say, but it appears we may have double booked. The room you selected with two doubles isn’t available—but that’s okay!” Her tone is chipper, just shy of forcibly upbeat. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and then she’s swiping two keycards through the machine to activate them. “We’ll upgrade you to a king suite, free of charge!”

Isa frowns. “Uh—”

“Thanks!” Lea’s breath ghosts over the shell of his ear, and he hangs one long, lanky arm over Isa’s shoulder to snag the cards she offers them. “You’re a peach!”

Isa allows the contact to remain long enough for her to give them directions, and then he’s slipping away from Lea’s stifling warmth, off to find their room. His footsteps are heavy, displeasure likely evident in the hunch of his shoulders, but it does nothing to deter the skip in Lea’s step, trailing along behind him. 

“This place is _wicked_.”

(Considering they’re here to investigate rumours of abduction, brainwashing, and possible substance distribution, the double entendre is almost amusing to Isa. Although he’d never let Lea know that.)

“A reminder that we’re not here to enjoy the view, Lea.” Isa’s eyes dance across the numbers, climbing higher and higher until he pulls to a stop at the end of the second floor balcony, and the door bookending the corner of the villa. He holds out a hand, and Lea slaps it with his palm in a lazy high-five and a snicker. 

“ _You’re_ not.” He squeezes in front of Isa, swiping the keycard across the electronic lock and letting them into their suite. “But I am very much liking what I see.”

As he steps into the room ahead, dumping his bag a few paces in, Isa closes the door behind them, sighing deeply. He sends a silent prayer to any God listening for this mission to be quick and easy, because he isn’t sure how long he can realistically pretend to enjoy Lea’s company without strangling him.

And okay, as annoying as he is, Lea _does_ have a point—at least about the room. 

High ceilings, dark bamboo doors, cream coloured walls as well as throw cushions adorning the furniture in the lounge. The sofa and armchair themselves are upholstered in vibrant tropical print, a theme that continues through the wide doorway and into the bedroom, where the same print is stretched over a large canvas that hangs above the enormous bed. The mountain of pillows decorating the mattress is made up of an array of creams, browns and greens. Gold accents line the furniture, the lamps, and even the mirror above the writing desk.

It’s peaceful, like a warm summer breeze, and Isa can certainly see the appeal, even as someone who doesn’t really _do_ vacations.

“Holy shit, there’s a _jacuzzi_ _tub_!” Lea’s voice echoes from the bathroom, and a moment later, his mop of red hair appears in the doorway. “Isa, did you hear me?”

He grunts noncommittally. His eyes are trained towards the ocean, clear and blue through the huge floor to ceiling window. Sunset glitters across the surface like stars in the night sky, and Isa hasn’t felt the welcoming call of water this badly since he was a kid.

“C’mon, Blue, loosen up a little.” Footsteps signal Lea’s approach, but Isa isn’t quick enough to sidestep the arm that drapes across his shoulders. The next words are spoken in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you _want_ them to know you’re an uptight narc right off the bat, _Agent Lyall_?”

Isa narrows his eyes, intending to object, but Lea’s laughter is warm and reverberates through every contact point between them, and the words still on his tongue. The other man’s grin is brighter than the sunset twinkling across the ocean outside, and as he steps away, he sweeps an arm to motion to the rest of the suite. “Admit it, you’re a _little_ happy we got bumped from whatever Basic Bureau package Aqua booked us to this, huh?”

His jaw tightens. “There’s only one bed, Lea.”

Green eyes blink at him owlishly. Once, twice, three times—as if he’s still trying to process or perhaps decipher the issue. Isa merely sighs, tossing his duffel onto the armchair. “I’ll take the couch.”

Lea hums at his shoulder. “Well, you _are_ shorter.” And then he’s slinking away like a cat, padding across the floor towards the bed. He launches himself onto it, and Isa watches the way he bounces fairly high before settling onto the mattress in a starfish shape. 

It distracts from his words, which take a moment to register. Isa's brows knit into a frown.

“Barely. And what does it matter, anyway?” He toes across the plush carpet in the lounge, staring down at the couch. “It folds out.”

“Does it though?” And Isa doesn’t need to look up to know Lea’s got an infuriating grin stretching across his lips, the teasing tone of his words is enough.

(He tries not to think about what it means to know Lea’s facial expressions that well.)

Isa slips one hand between the couch cushions, searching for the telltale feel of springs from a mattress, or the metal bar one typically pulls on to unfold the couch, and comes up empty-handed. His scowl deepens, and makes an annoyed noise between tongue and tooth. Lea’s taunting laugh bubbles up from the bedroom, drifting out to him like a phantom song.

It has been barely a day, and Isa is already thoroughly done with this trip, and this partnership. 

When Lea’s amusement changes tune, transforming into an innocent whistle, Isa groans. “Think about it, Blue—what if there’s an emergency, and someone comes to check on us, yeah? Would seem kind of strange, me sleeping _all by my lonesome…_ in this _big ol’ bed…_ without my _husband_ … ”

His head raises just enough for Isa to see the knowing grin plastered across his mouth. He fights his right eye’s urge to twitch, and reluctantly collects his duffel from the armchair. His footsteps towards the bedroom are a little sullen, and he tries to ignore the way delight dances across the green of Lea’s eyes when he notices Isa has accepted his fate.

“Fine,” he says, tossing his bag on the opposite side of the bed from Lea’s. He holds up a hand, index finger pointed at the redhead accusingly. “But keep your hands to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else, Blue,” Lea winks.

Isa really, truly wonders if this is perhaps a mission in patience, rather than an undercover stint.

* * *

The sun is high in the sky and already warming Isa’s skin by the time they head out the next day.

Lea, it turns out, is just as terrible a morning person now as he’d been as a teenager—even on vacation. Which would be fine, except that they were meant to meet _his_ contacts (Friends? Ex-partners? Former criminal associates? Assassins for hire he’d met undercover? Isa had trouble keeping track, honestly) thirty minutes ago. The way they haven’t even been “husbands” a _day_ and he’s already broken Isa’s perfect attendance _twice_ speaks volumes to how poorly thought out this partnership is, really. 

He wonders just what the hell the Bureau was thinking no less than three times on the way down to the shore.

And every time, it’s because he glances to his right, and sees the absolutely _hideous_ Hawaiian shirt Lea’s sporting. Sunburst orange, silhouetted by dark palm trees and clusters of bright red parrots. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of his head, backed by a loose and incredibly messy bun of wild, red locks. And despite only being outside a handful of minutes, a constellation of freckles has already begun blooming across Lea’s cheeks and nose beneath the glisten and sheen of the _three_ layers of sunscreen he’d slathered on before they left their room.

Not that Isa is paying that close attention, or anything.

As careful as he is, Lea catches the look on his fourth glance. “See something you like, Blue?”

Isa scowls. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.” 

Lea raises a brow, and in response, he gestures to the shirt. The answering grin stretches ear to ear, nearly on par with the sun’s blinding glare itself. “I’m on vacation! This is vacation wear!”

Isa rolls his eyes skyward, thankful for the sunglasses adorning his nose. “That is an _eyesore_.”

The resulting laugh is low and full bodied, colouring his cheeks. As they step off the trail and onto the sandy beach, the redhead sidles up to him, slinging an arm around Isa’s shoulders for the third time since their arrival at the resort. His voice drops low, breath warm as it ghosts across the shorter man’s cheek. “Would it kill you to have a little fun while we’re here, Blue?”

“It might. And that’s not my name.” Isa does his best to resist shrugging him off, acutely aware of all the other resort guests flocking along the shoreline and the knowledge that they do, in fact, have a cover to maintain. Loathe as he is to do so.

“Well,” Lea hums, smirk dimpling one cheek, “if we’re going to do this, then you can’t act like you hate me, _babe_.”

Isa’s insides twist in a way he doesn’t like. The weight of the redhead’s arm on his shoulders feels heavier, all of a sudden, and the warmth seeping through his white polo is almost stifling. He swallows, tearing his gaze away from the twinkle of joy in the green of Lea’s eyes, and tries to muster the same irritated tone he’s been wearing like a badge since yesterday. “Well, _you_ don’t have to act like you’re enjoying it so much.”

“Actually!” Lea’s hand taps at his shoulder, dragging his gaze over to it as the redhead wiggles his fingers, doing his best to catch sunlight on his ring. “We’re _married_ , Isa. Acting like I’m enjoying this was _literally_ in the assignment briefing.”

Isa knows that if he doesn’t smarten up, the scowl will cement itself permanently on his features, and that might be an admitted detriment to the mission. He sighs a tad more dramatically than necessary, and sees the moment Lea catches on in the delight flaring in his eyes. “I hate it when you’re right.” 

“No wonder you’re always so grouchy, then.” There’s a gleeful little bounce to his gait, and he launches some sand into the air ahead of them as he pulls a step or two ahead of Isa. As his arm slips from around the shorter man’s shoulders, pale fingers trail down his arm, tangling seamlessly with Isa’s. This time, his laugh is warm and almost… _fond_. “Now, smile for my friends, will you?”

And he turns, raising his free hand to wave at the two individuals a little further up the beach. “Larxene! Marluxia! Hey!”

The man notices them first, blue eyes narrowed against the overwhelming sunlight. His pink hair is tucked beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat, and the green ribbon on it matches his swim trunks. He throws an arm up to beckon them over, then looks over his shoulder to say something to the woman laid out along a chaise lounge in the shade of a parasol. She’s in a vibrant yellow bikini, and barely raises her sunglasses to peer over at them, watching them approach. 

Isa remembers their case files well enough. After all, he’d had to study them front to back leading up the trip, after they’d been spotted at the resort and things had fallen into place for Lea to contact them. 

They’re old friends from the underground crime ring Lea used to frequent—though he’d gone as Axel, then. Marluxia had been identified as an expert marksman, while Larxene was ranked near the top of the FBI’s black hat list of hackers. Both are incredibly dangerous people to call friends, but Isa supposes that it’s simply the price of having Lea for a partner. 

(Besides, it isn’t like either of them aren’t dangerous in their own right, too. )

Lea’s fingers tug him along, and the two come to a stop just inside the edge of the parasol’s shadow. This close, Isa easily spots the healthy smattering of freckles across Marluxia’s bare chest and shoulders, darkening his tanned skin. His grin is relaxed and welcoming as he reaches for Lea with long arms. 

Lea allows himself to be embraced, but doesn’t let go of Isa’s hand, which results in the return of that strange twinge in the man’s chest. The one he doesn’t like, much less understand. When he pulls out of the hug, Larxene slides her sunglasses up onto her head, and raises a brow in Isa’s direction. 

“Wow, when you called to tell us you wanted to bring your husband to the retreat, I honestly thought you were lying, Axel,” she snickers, cyan eyes glittering beneath the summer sun. “He’s cute. And way out of your league.”

Isa nearly chokes, and Lea’s grip tightens on his hand as he lets out an undignified noise. “ _Rude_ , Larx. And what do you know, anyway? You’re a lesbian.”

“I’m not,” Marluxia chuckles, and his pointed once-over is far more appreciative than Larxene’s. “She’s right—he’s way too good looking for you.”

Lea’s scowl deepens, and the flush that blooms across his cheeks is darker than Isa’s ever seen it. It’s a little unsettling on a man who doesn’t typically get embarrassed or upset easily, who laughs off everything with a nonchalance Isa would never admit to being envious of. Something twinges in Isa’s chest, and he steps closer, pressing his side against Lea’s.

“He also has ears, and is standing right here,” Isa says, squeezing his partner’s hand as he lifts their joint fingers into the air. He makes a point of rolling his wrist so that Lea’s (fake) wedding ring is visible, twinkling in the sunlight. “And considering _I’m_ the one that chased after _him_ , I think you guys have it all wrong.”

Forming a lie on half truths always was the easy part of undercover work, but the irony of this one brings a hint of amusement to his lips, quirking his mouth at one corner. Lea sees the smile the moment he glances over, and the sourness on his face all but evaporates, a puddle drying up beneath the hot sun. 

(Strangely, though, the blush doesn’t.)

Larxene hums. “I like him.”

“Well!” Lea swings their hands down, pressing them gently against the outside of his thigh like an anchor point, and grins back and forth between the three of them. “I’m glad! This is Isa—babe, this is Marly and Larx.”

They both wrinkle their noses, and Isa doesn’t stifle his amusement this time, letting Lea hear the very clear snort. The resulting smile is somewhere between surprised and elated, and Isa figures he’ll let him have this, just this once. 

“Please don’t call us that,” Marluxia drawls, offering his hand. “Axel just thinks because we’ve spilled blood for one another that he can do as he pleases.”

Beside him, Lea tenses and coughs into his shoulder. Larxene, meanwhile, kicks out with her bare toes into the other man’s calf, and when Marluxia’s gaze whips down to her, some of his hair falls loose from his hat. She gives him a pointed look, and there’s guilt curving his lips when he looks back up at them. “I realize now that Axel never told us what you did—so, uh—”

“It’s alright,” Isa chuckles, and finds that this whole situation is ridiculous enough he doesn’t have to fake it. Their cover story sails to the forefront of his mind on an errant breeze, and he shrugs, nonchalant. “Kind of unavoidable to not know your client’s extensive past when you’re hired on as a bodyguard.”

Marluxia’s gaze softens, while Larxene’s smile turns teasing. “Aww, you fell in love with your bodyguard… Axel, darling, _never_ stop being a cliché.” 

“I aim to please,” he says, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Isa considers squeezing his hand in support again, but the moment he moves to do so, the redhead has pulled his fingers away, curling it around his own neck as his elbows point upwards in a leisurely stretch. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to get dunked on—I came to visit you assholes and _have fun_ on my honeymoon, so! You come here every summer, right? What’s there to do around here?”

Larxene’s eyes seem to light up, and she finally sits up on her chaise lounge, running a hand through her slicked back blonde locks. “Well, there’s yoga classes in the mornings, which you should definitely come to. Basically everyone here does, so it’s a fantastic way to meet people, if that’s your thing! Then there’s beach volleyball just past the next building every day at three—”

Lea perks up at this, glancing sidelong at Isa. “Maybe we can try that today, before we’re too tired.” The wink he throws in is pointed, and Isa feels his ears warm at the implication.

Larxene continues on as if she hasn’t been interrupted. “—hiking along the cove, surf lessons by the beach house by the entrance—”

Now, it’s Isa that interrupts, aiming to settle a score. “Oh, you used to _love_ surfing when we were kids,” he grins, and doesn’t miss the way Lea blanches, just a bit. It’s a little slip of honesty, a card played a little too close to home, but it garners the desired effect. 

(They both know full well he _hated_ water when they were younger, a fact easily highlighted by the fact that they’d grown up on the coast.)

“Well, I haven’t done it since, _babe_ ,” Lea says tightly, arms crossing over his chest. It’s astounding to Isa that after all these years, their time apart and at odds with one another, he still has the same tells. “So I don’t think I remember how.”

Isa doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, doesn’t understand what it is about this whole exchange under Larxene and Marluxia’s watchful eye that drives him to lay it on thick, but Isa _winks_ , and offers very plainly: “I can teach you.”

And Lea—Lea, somehow, actually looks _flustered_. The pink flush to his cheeks isn’t embarrassed or upset any longer, but something far more dangerous than that. He looks away, clearing his throat. “M-Maybe. We’ll see.”

Isa feels like he’s floating in his own skin. He feels like something… very strange just happened, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Thankfully, Larxene coos loudly, and that breaks the moment, easing them both back into familiar territory. “Well, aren’t you two just _so_ cuuuute!”

They spend the next few hours with the pair, sun-bathing (Lea) and swimming (Isa), joking around like old friends, but Lea doesn’t reach for his hand again. He doesn’t hang off Isa as he’d done all morning, and yesterday to boot, when he’d been insistent on keeping up appearances. 

And strangely, Isa finds that this bothers him.

* * *

Larxene, as it turns out, ends up being well informed—it seems like the whole resort _does_ attend the morning yoga classes. 

There’s _three_ , spread out across large, adjacent areas a little reminiscent of convention panel rooms. Isa and Lea end up in the middle one, but spot the blonde waving at them from across the hall, where she and Marluxia are doing warm-up stretches. Lea raises his arm to wave enthusiastically, and Isa is yet again reminded of the eyesore he’s wearing as the words written across the front of his tank top flash across his line of sight.

 _SUN’S OUT, GUNS OUT!_ is printed in a dramatic yellow, set against sky-blue fabric. There’s a sun peeking out over the top of the lettering, sporting a pair of shades. The whole thing clashes horribly with Lea’s bright red hair—though it’s currently looped into a loose bun, wisps of it brushing over the nape of his neck. When he catches Isa looking, his grin rivals the sun plastered on his shirt. “Be honest: you’re jealous I brought the best vacation wear.”

Isa wrinkles his nose and shakes his head as he unrolls his yoga mat, refusing to reward him with an answer. He peels off the hoodie he’d worn here, tossing it next to his water bottle, and takes stock of the room as he starts on warm up stretches. 

There’s six other people in the class—the elderly couple and the young woman who barely looks old enough to bartend the pool section he saw her at yesterday. Isa rules the three of them out immediately. The other three, however, catch his attention. 

Judging by the wedding rings and matching yoga mats, Isa assumes the two tall, muscular men are married. One has long dark hair woven into tight braids and held in a low ponytail. The other has a shock of unruly carrot-colored hair and a soft smile. 

“Aeleus! Dilan! Long time no see!” The sixth class participant greets them warmly. His dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail streaked with grey, and an eyepatch covers one eye.

“Braig,” one of the two men rumbles, and that’s about all Isa catches of their conversation, because the rest is lost to the ding of a bell at the head of the class, and the instructor’s lilting voice welcoming them.

Isa listens intently, following every move with the careful, practiced ease of someone who greets the sunrise on his balcony every morning with leisurely stretches and a clear mind. It isn’t usually with the soft swell of classical music the instructor has playing, but Isa isn’t one to complain about the small break from his routine. He settles into the class comfortably, his surroundings falling away as he uses the time to reflect on what they’ve learned so far about the resort and it’s guests. He combs through a mental list of notes he’s taken, matching them against the case files he has in their room and the blueprint he’d started on last night after dinner and a day full of exploring.

He’s midway through a pose that reaches one arm across the other, pressing the muscles in his forearm against those in the opposite arm’s bicep, when he catches Lea staring. It’s about the third or fourth time he’s noticed, but there’s something incredibly pointed about it this time—and the fact that Lea isn’t really following along with the class, either, only loosely imitating the pose they’re supposed to be doing.

Isa frowns. “Everything okay?” He whispers gently, but it still seems to catch the other man off guard. He startles, green eyes widening and colour blooming across his face, backlighting his freckles with a pink hue.

“Yeah,” Lea says, but the word sounds a little choked. He looks away from him, and drops his voice to a matching whisper. “Just uh—is that my old shirt?”

Isa freezes, the hold on his yoga pose loosening. Slowly, he glances down at what he’s wearing. It’s an old muscle tee, one of his everyday workout shirts, practically acid washed from pale red to a pastel pink by age. The hem’s a little frayed, and the design on the front is so faded the Twilight Tower is barely even visible anymore, but he’s never had the heart to throw it out.

Because Lea had left it at his house the night before… well, before he’d run away. Before he’d slipped away through a dark window, and vanished from Isa’s life for a handful of difficult years.

Isa had kept it buried in the bottom of a drawer for some time, unable to look at it without a wave of anger and grief washing over him like high tide. And then, one day after he’d moved into his college apartment with Ventus, he’d found it packed amongst his things and it hadn’t hurt nearly as much, stirring only a gentle sting in his chest when he looked at it. He’d slipped it into a pile with the rest of his workout shirts, and hadn’t thought anything of it.

“Uh,” he says brilliantly, blinking at Lea as he returns to the present conversation. “Yeah, I uh—I sort of cut the sleeves off when I started training for, y’know, work… I’m sorry?” 

“Yeah,” Lea nods a couple times, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, I can’t imagine they’d have fit over those muscles.”

Isa’s brain skips over the words like the needle of a faulty record player, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of them. And from the way his brows rise, wrinkling his forehead with shock and making him look like he’s startled he even spoke them aloud—Lea doesn’t either. His face blooms scarlet, and he laughs it off nervously, gaze flicking away from him and back to the front of the class. 

* * *

“How fancy is _fancy_?” Isa says over the spray of the bathroom tap, where Lea is washing his face. He’s standing in front of the bed, where he’s laid out the two nice dinner outfits he packed. The third is still in his duffel, encased in a garment bag, because he hopes like hell none of the three restaurants on this island are formal enough for a full suit.

(At least, not the one he’d brought. Naminé had cautioned him against bringing any of his everyday Bureau suits during the mission briefing, and Lea had agreed, saying they made him look like a “narc”.)

Lea’s head pops through the doorway, the lower half of his face covered with shaving cream. “Nice? I don’t know, did you bring anything that’s somewhere between ivy league frat boy and golf course douchebag?”

Isa glares harshly. Wordlessly, he waves a hand over the two button ups laying on the bed and Lea brightens when he glances down. “Oh! Wear the navy one with a pair of white chinos, you look good in that.” And then he vanishes into the bathroom again.

“I—Thanks?” A proper response escapes him, and he’s left standing there, blinking.

The moment passes, and Isa dresses in silence, slipping on the brown shoes he’d driven down in to complete the outfit. By the time he’s done, Lea’s finished shaving whatever mystery facial hair he seems to think he can grow, and steps out of the bathroom, flicking off the light. 

Isa sends a thank you to whatever God is listening that he _isn’t_ wearing a Hawaiian shirt or something equally ugly, but rather a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, over salmon-coloured shorts that look like they’ve recently been ironed. There’s a little sun embroidered on the breast pocket, and it brings something of a smile to Isa’s lips.

“Wow.”

“Wow, huh?” Lea smirks, raising a brow. “I can work with wow.”

Isa’s face puckers like sour candy, and he rolls his eyes as he heads to the front door. “I just mean you clean up nice. I didn’t think it was possible.”

There’s a self-satisfied hum behind him, and Isa doesn’t dare look back as he grabs his keys and wallet, sliding them into his pocket on the way out. He hears the click of the lock slide home as Lea shuts the door, and shuffles after him. 

It takes them about ten minutes to walk from their villa to the restaurant on the other side of the resort grounds, and the silence between them is contemplative but comfortable. Lea catches up within a few paces by the grace of his long legs, and is blissfully quiet the whole way there. He hums a pleasant tune under his breath, and his elbow knocks into Isa’s every now and then, but otherwise blesses them both with a lack of chatter.

Which means the air crackles to life with Isa’s soft curse when the restaurant comes to view in front of them. Potted palms frame the large glass doors, and there’s a sparkle of string lights all throughout the place, woven through two dozen more potted trees stationed by every towering, floor to ceiling window. Dark wood floors stretch as far as the eye can see, and wicker chairs surround every table, adorned with pale green cushions. Silverware and cream coloured plates are accented matching green place settings, and at the center of every table is a single candle in a small terrarium, giving the whole set up a warm and inviting glow.

“I thought you said it was just _nice_ ,” he hisses into Lea’s ear as the redhead pulls the door open for him.

“It is,” Lea shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself. Isa’s fingers itch in response, but he can’t pinpoint the reason. He settles for glowering at the back of Lea’s head as the other man heads for the hostess desk, a skip in his step. He lifts his left hand to wave at her. “Hello, reservation for two under Solis, please.”

Isa frowns. They’re meant to be using his last name for everything, as per their cover.

The woman offers him a bright smile, fingers curling around two leather-bound menus. “Right this way please, Mr. and Mr. Solis.”

Isa’s cheeks run hot, and there’s a twist in the pit of his stomach at being addressed as such. He’s very thankful that Lea is far too busy chatting up the hostess to notice, but no sooner does he think it and clear his throat—trying to dispel whatever unprofessional reaction flares in his chest—does Lea look back, beaming over his shoulder at him. The redhead reaches out, twining their fingers together without a second thought, and pulling him along towards their table. He flashes the hostess the kind of smile that sparkles, and she ducks her head, pink flooding her cheeks as she wishes them a lovely evening.

As they take a seat, a waiter wanders over with a list of wines, and Lea selects a red from the list after raising a brow at Isa to confirm. “Not that fancy, huh?” He says as the waiter gives them time to look over the menu.

Lea shrugs. “I’ve seen fancier.”

Isa purses his lips and tries not to think too hard about why. “I’m sure you have.”

Dinner is lighthearted and easy. It’s a welcome surprise to Isa, who’s so used to being perpetually annoyed with Lea, but just like the walk over, he keeps his chattering to a minimum, and when he does speak, it’s like they’re _actually_ having a conversation, instead of trading barbs back and forth. It’s a comfortable calm that settles over their table, and it allows Isa to take in their surroundings, and quietly people watch.

He rules out most of the staff and other dinner guests easily enough, his eyes nor his ears picking up anything worthwhile as they eat their way through their meals. Lea, overeager as always when it comes to food, is finished before Isa, and leans back in his chair with one arm draped over the backrest to take over.

A low snort draws Isa’s attention away from his food, and he glances up to follow Lea’s gaze to the pair that just walked in. 

One has a mohawk that’s styled down with far too much gel, looking entirely out of place in a blue button down a size too big—the other is wrapped in a fuzzy grey cardigan and is squinting at hostess through a curtain of grey-blue hair Isa’s fairly certain went out of style in the late 90s. They shuffle quietly after her to a table two down from Isa and Lea, and proceed to shoot small and very noticeable glances at one another over menus.

Lea snickers. “That’s an awkward first date, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Isa raises a brow, spears the last of his salmon with the end of his fork. “Speaking from experience, are you?” He keeps his tone light and teasing, lest Lea _actually_ think he wants to pry into his dating history, but it’s rewarded with a mischievous smirk that immediately spells danger.

“You should know,” Lea says easily, tilting his head, drumming his fingers on the table. “ _Le Grand Bistro_ was your choice, wasn’t it?”

Isa’s heart drops into his stomach, his knuckles turning white around his fork. “T-That wasn’t a date, and you know it.”

It had been a set up—and Isa had been bait dangled at the end of a wire by the Bureau. The fact that it had drawn Lea in so easily is something Isa has spent over a year trying not to dwell on and overthink.

There’s a nonchalant roll to the redhead’s shoulders. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

Heat flares in Isa’s cheeks at the implication, and he steadies his trembling fork on the way to his mouth, stuffing a forkful of food into his maw to prevent himself from saying anything else. As he chews slowly, he chances a glance up to see Lea isn’t looking at him anymore, but at the other pair. He frowns. “Why do you have that look on your face like you’re about to do something stupid?”

Lea beams. “It’s called _plotting_ , Isa. Keep up.”

And he gets to his feet, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he saunters up to the other table. Isa’s pulse kicks into his throat, and he barely resists dragging a hand down his face. What exactly about _low profile_ does Lea refuse to understand? _Repeatedly?_

At this rate, he’s going to recommend that Lea be benched after this mission.

He finishes his food with nerves crawling across his skin like ants, watching Lea chatter away at the other table, a Broadway-worthy smile plastered on his lips. Though he can’t hear what his partner is saying, he can certainly see the way tension bleeds out of both dinner guests, and he supposes that Lea’s flair for the dramatics aside, it can’t be all bad, whatever he’s doing.

At least until both men turn to look his way, and Isa’s forced to quirk his lips into something inviting, offering them both a little wave. Lea’s eyes sparkle in response, and a moment later, he’s bidding the two men goodbye and heading back to their table. 

He meets their waiter halfway, and gestures towards the other table with one hand, tapping the tray of empty glasses the man carries with the other. Isa frowns at him as he hovers at the edge of the table with a grin. 

“What was that about?”

“Just offering my new pals Demyx and Ienzo a little friendly advice about difficult dates,” Lea winks. “You ready to go, babe?”

Isa’s lips twitch. “We sort of have to pay first, Lea.”

“Already did—for us, and a bottle of the good stuff for the lovebirds,” Lea tosses a thumb over his shoulder, and Isa blinks, dumbfounded. He watches the waiter deposit the tray by the bar counter, and slide a credit card off it and towards the machine.

Isa stands, dropping his voice to ensure his words reach Lea and no further. “You know it has to be on my card for the Bureau to—”

Lea waves him off, gently patting his shoulder. “It’s my treat for once, yeah? It’s fine.”

Something warm flickers in the pit of Isa’s stomach, but he chooses not to dwell on it. Instead, he plays with the hem of his shirt until the waiter returns Lea’s card, and then shuffles out of the restaurant, heat crawling along his spine. Lea’s laughter is warm and trails after him like a summer breeze, mixing with the gentle evening glow that’s settled over the resort.

“I think you need to loosen up, _babe_ ,” he says jovially. He shoulders playfully past Isa, and saunters up to the open bar counter, flashing a smile at the bartender. “One beer, and a Sea Salt Dreamsicle, please!”

He wanders back a moment later with his hands full, and holds out the beer for Isa—pausing just shy of the man’s fingers with a teasing smile. Lea’s voice drops several octaves to a whisper. “You’re still a beer person, right?”

Isa’s nod is tight, but his smile softens at the edges as Lea’s eyes light up. 

“Perfect!” He slips the drink into Isa’s hand with a warmth that lingers longer than it ought to, before dipping down to link their fingers together. He pulls him along, pointing his garishly bright drink towards the nearest patio archway. “C’mon, the sunset’s _gotta_ be amazing on the water.”

Isa glances around carefully, trying to spot anyone the other man might’ve recognized, but just like the restaurant, he comes away with no reason for Lea to make a show of holding hands. The knowledge settles like a lump in his throat, and he tries to clear it with a large swig of his beer. He tastes the faintest hint of lime on the mouth of the bottle, and he focuses on that sour note as he allows Lea to lead him down towards the beach. The tiled path ends where there’s a line of palm trees, and that’s where Lea pulls them to a stop, seemingly unwilling to tread on the sand with his nice shoes, and Isa’s quietly grateful.

Besides, the view of the ocean and the bleed of reds, oranges and yellows over the horizon, washing the clouds with pastel hues, is perfectly breathtaking from here. It sparkles in Lea’s eyes as he soaks it in, warming the green to a soft and gentle lime, and Isa feels the strangest tightness in his chest, like something from dinner isn’t quite sitting right. He feels like he should say something, maybe congratulate him on being tolerable this evening, but the words sit heavy on his tongue and feel out of place.

The moment breaks when Lea takes a sip of his drink finally, coming away with whipped cream across his entire upper lip, and laughter shakes Isa so hard he nearly spills his beer.

“So he _can_ loosen up,” Lea glances at him with a smile, which fades quickly into a frown when he sees Isa’s amusement is directed at him. “What?”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t grow facial hair,” Isa teases, motioning at his own mouth and then Lea’s. “You’ve got a little something there.”

The roll of Lea’s eyes is fond, and his lips quirk before his tongue swipes at the offending whipped cream. He manages to get a good chunk of it, but Isa snorts and shakes his head when he raises a brow in question. “Oh my god!” He wipes at it with the back of his hand, instead, and successfully gets it off the tip of his nose, at least.

“Almost, but not quite,” Isa says, mirth coating the words, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he reaches out with a hand. The toes of his shoes knock against Lea’s, and his index finger curls beneath the redhead’s chin. Slowly, as though afraid to spook him, Isa brushes his thumb at the corner of Lea’s mouth, swiping the last of the whipped cream from it. Lea’s eyelashes flutter in sync with the touch, and Isa practically _feels_ the sharp inhale he takes.

“There,” he says, the word barely more than a stuttered breath, the ghost of something loaded sitting on his tongue. “All gone.”

“I—” Lea’s voice cracks, response dying in his throat. He swallows thickly, and though his lips part again, no other words follow. Isa vaguely has time to process that he’s made _Lea_ speechless, before there’s a loud and very pointed clearing of a throat to their left.

Tension coils instantly in Isa’s shoulders, but he schools his face into something neutral as he spins away from Lea—who manages to mask his surprise far less successfully—towards the source. Standing a few feet from them is an older looking gentleman with long, straight blond hair, and a slight hunch to his shoulders. He’s dressed in a long white coat that vaguely resembles lab-wear, and the cut of his cheekbones and angle of his brows is sharp, just shy of annoyed.

“Hello,” he says flatly. His gaze is cool as his golden eyes crawl over them, assessing, before his lips purse. “Sorry for _interrupting_ , but I’ve come to deliver something important. I’d hoped you’d return to your room after dinner but— _well_.”

He brandishes a cream-coloured envelope and holds it out for Isa to take, sounding for all the world like their decision to see the sunset was _personally_ offensive to him. Isa scans over the thing, hesitant, spotting the official looking seal that vaguely resembles the resort’s logo before the man shakes it for emphasis. 

“Come now, I’m here on behalf of the resort owners, but I haven’t got all day,” he clicks his tongue, and Isa resists the scowl threatening to twist across his face. Lea saves him the trouble and swipes the envelope from the man’s fingers—pressing his now empty glass there in exchange. The glare it earns him is positively _murderous_ , and Isa bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Thanks!” He says brightly, tearing the envelope open. Isa leans into his space to read the letter he unfolds, hyper aware of the heat rolling off him, but there isn’t much there. Fancy letterhead and crisp cursive, it’s an invitation to an _exclusive_ dinner tomorrow night, a formal event hosted by the resort owners themselves. And while that’s strange enough to give him pause, it’s the location that catches Isa’s interest most.

It’s in the wing of the main building that’s typically closed off—the only place they haven’t yet explored and cased out. He sees the same recognition dawn on Lea’s face, and curls his hand around the other man’s elbow in warning, considering they still have company.

“Thank you very much…” Isa slips on his best attempt at a grateful smile, offering the blond a hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t offer it,” he says through his teeth, but he still takes Isa’s hand. “It’s Vexen.”

“Well, thank you for the delivery, Vexen,” Isa says warmly, feeling the calluses on the tips of the other man’s fingers in the greeting. He watches him wrinkle his nose and retreat to his pockets once it’s over. “We’ll see you there?”

“Of course,” he huffs, looking down his nose at Lea, fingers turning white as they grip the redhead’s glass tightly. There’s a beat, and then he turns on his heel, stalking away from them. 

Lea sighs, and Isa releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, too. They glance at one another with matching confusion. “That was…”

“Weird? Yeah,” Lea nods. “C’mon, I think I need to wash off his bad vibes with another drink.”

* * *

There’s sunlight streaming softly through the window when Isa wakes. It’s gentle and delicate, just barely over the horizon, casting a warm haze through the palm leaves outside, sparkling with dust particles on the balcony. It’s a happy, comforting sunrise that has Isa smiling softly into his pillow, a contented hum on his lips. His toes stretch towards the base of the bed, and he leans back into a firm warmth.

A warmth that nuzzles at the back of his neck, just below the line of his undercut, causing red hair to spill over his shoulder and into his peripheral vision. Isa freezes. Suddenly, he remembers where he is.

He’s in his room at the _Destiny Islands Resort_ , and he’s in bed with Lea Solis. Who he definitely, positively warned about keeping his hands to himself—and whose arm is most _certainly_ draped over Isa’s waist, fingers curled gently beneath the hem of his shirt. The three miniscule points of skin contact are a blazing inferno to his sleep-fogged brain, and Isa hopes like hell the other man can’t feel the way his pulse kicks up a fuss instantly upon realizing this.

Isa counts the seconds impatiently, waiting for Lea to still, for his gentle breathing to lapse into something deeper, something just short of snoring, before he chances movement. Painfully slowly, a spoon dragging through molasses, he slips from Lea’s grasp; from his individual warmth and that of the huge cloud of a bed, and heads straight for the bathroom. 

He turns the tap in the huge, cavernous shower to cold (seriously, is everything in this suite oversized?) and strips down, stepping inside after barely a few seconds. The nip and chill of the water is a cold winter morning on his sleep-warmed skin, but Isa finds it a welcome distraction from his errant, jumbled thoughts. 

Thoughts that bubble up from deep in his chest, where he’d locked them long ago, in a box surrounded by a nest of thorns and thick vines built up over years.

Thoughts he _cannot_ be having in the middle of a mission, least of all about the infuriating man in the other room.

Isa soaks beneath the chilly spray until his teeth start to chatter, just to be sure his head is clear, and then hops out to get dressed. He’s thankful he’d had the sense to grab a change of clothes when he’d rolled out of bed earlier, because the thought of wandering back out there to do so in nothing but a towel twists his insides in a way he doesn’t like. 

“You’re being stupid,” he mutters, hands on either side of the sink. Isa glares at his own reflection, at his short crop of blue hair and the way his still wet bangs hang down over his scar. He focuses on that—on the thin, puckered lines that frame his furrowed brows and troubled green eyes, and tries to remind himself that if it weren’t for the man in the other room, he wouldn’t have the damn thing. 

He drags a hand through his hair, slicking it back, and then pads out of the bathroom to start his day. 

In his absence, Isa notices that Lea has sprawled further across the bed and into his space. He’s snoring softly, arms curled tightly around the pillow on which Isa had slept all night. The comforter has peeled away to reveal an expanse of freckled skin along his bare back, and Isa’s hands clench at his sides at the sight.

He shakes his head, knocking the thoughts loose and letting them free fall into the back of his mind and out of sight. Heading into the lounge, he pauses only to grab the case file from the safe in the bedroom closet. He sets the small coffee pot in their suite to brew, and then takes a seat in the armchair, spreading the papers across the table in front of him.

As he sips his way through his coffee, his eyes roam over the documents, absorbing and rereading all the information the Bureau and Agency have gathered on the retreat so far. It’s nothing he hasn’t read before, both in the mission prep he and Lea had been given, and across various intelligence briefs that have passed through Isa’s desk in the last several months, but it never hurts to go over it again with a fresh, clear mind. Sometimes, things could stand out that hadn’t before.

As if the universe thinks this particular train of thought is a joke—Lea chooses that exact moment to wander out of the bedroom. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, prominently displaying the ‘v’ of them, and he rubs at his left eye blearily, squinting at Isa. His hair is a disheveled mess, a bird’s nest of bright red sticking up at odd angles. 

“What’re you doin’?” The words are a little slurred with sleep, and he stops at the edge of the lounge carpet, bare toes curling into the plush fabric.

Isa can’t help but find the whole visual adorable, and is instantly annoyed with himself for thinking so. He clears his throat, motioning to the papers with his free hand. “Going over the case notes in the hopes that something adds up differently, or stands out to me now that we’re here.”

Lea hums, nodding a little. He shuffles across the carpet, dropping into the corner of the couch closest to him. “And? Any—” a yawn cuts the word off before it’s even built, and his mouth stretches around the rest of his sentence, large and cavernous, “—thing biting?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Isa shakes his head, setting his now empty coffee cup on the corner of the table. He doesn’t miss the way Lea’s eyes drift towards it, nose twitching. “And time is running out—if our intel is correct, and this happens once a month to coincide with the full moon, then the next abduction should be soon.”

“What if it’s werewolves?” Lea snickers, eyes glassy. Isa shoots him a pointed look, and his returned grin is sheepish. “M’sorry. Not awake enough yet. Coffee?”

Isa winces. “Sorry, I only brewed the one. I wasn’t sure when you’d be up.” He feels a little bad about it, too.

The redhead lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, leaning his head back against the sofa with a contemplative hum. The move puts his neck on prominent display, and the sunlight filtering in through the windows behind Isa washes over Lea in a warm, gentle glow. “S’alright. I’ll just listen—talk me through it?”

Isa shuffles some paper on the table in front of him, needing to look away. He clears his throat again, then walks him through what they know. The timed abductions, the way the people show up a handful of days later out of sorts, acting almost like different people in the same skin, with no memory of where they’ve been. There’s no pattern to the variety of resort guests that have been taken, nor any one particular place where they’ve gone missing and turned up. 

“I feel like we’re missing something, like maybe we’re not seeing the whole picture,” Isa huffs, blowing a frustrated breath out his nose. “We’ve investigated the majority of the resort at this point, but…”

“But?” Lea opens one eye, bright green and far more attentive than before. 

“But not the sealed wing. Which isn’t inherently suspicious, given that plenty of buildings have sections that are staff only.”

Lea shuffles slightly on the couch, and he motions to the little card they’d been handed after dinner the night before, sitting squarely in the middle of the coffee table. “Except that we were explicitly invited to a fancy dinner that’s being held there. On our second day here.”

Isa nods. “Exactly. On the night of the full moon.” His knee bounces, the only outward sign of his nerves. He _hates_ not having all the cards on the table, all the pieces to the puzzle laid out before him. It’s like walking in to take a test featuring an entire module they hadn’t covered in class, or something.

He’s far too preoccupied to notice Lea sit up properly, but he definitely takes note when the other man’s knee knocks gently against his. Isa glances up to see a tentative smile woven across his lips. “Hey, would seeing me epically fail at learning to surf make you feel better?”

There’s a brief pause, and the silence that stretches between them feels heavy, weighted. Isa feels like he’s tiptoeing along a precarious wire, suspended over water already muddled by two and a half days of mixed signals and childhood feelings dragged up from the depths of the sea fogging his brain. Like dinner the night before—this invitation does nothing for the mission. It’s not recon, and the likelihood of there being other guests they could scope out isn’t a factor. 

It’s purely a result of Isa’s overly obvious nerves, and Lea’s… genuine offer to help.

It stirs something in his chest, an uncomfortable twist he still doesn’t wish to name, and he files it away to dissect later. The smirk that curls his mouth is small, but present. “Maybe.”

Lea brightens, easy grin dimpling both his cheeks, lifting his freckles into the sunlight pouring through the room. He runs a hand through his messy locks, and laughs. “Okay, how about you grab me a coffee and two of those little breakfast burritos downstairs, and I’ll get dressed and meet you down there in like, ten?”

Isa narrows his eyes. The man’s fascination with breakfast burritos truly baffles him. “I will grab you _one_ , and fine.”

Lea’s eyes sparkle as he jumps to his feet, stretching one arm high into the air. The other hand slaps at his toned stomach. “Aww, babe, are you watching my physique for me? Cute.”

Isa knows he’s teasing, but still, the use of the pet name in private, where no one is around to hear them—and therefore there’s no need to maintain cover—flutters through his chest like an errant bug. He attempts to squash the thing before it starts beating loudly alongside his vital organs, and rolls his eyes as he stands. “God, please be quiet.” 

* * *

Isa stands in the courtyard of their villa with a buttered bagel, two breakfast burritos and a coffee in hand five minutes later. His phone is cradled between his ear and shoulder, and his brows are knit tightly together as he listens to the line ring endlessly. With every passing trill, his heart climbs further into his throat. 

Which means that the moment Ventus picks up, muttering a sleepy _‘llo?_ over the line, the words spill from Isa like water through a broken dam. 

“I have a problem, Ven,” Isa hisses into the receiver, setting Lea’s coffee and food on the stone ledge beside him. It allows him to attack his own bagel wrapper, tearing a chunk off that he gestures with as he launches into a hushed retelling of his dinner with Lea the previous night, and the issue of waking up in his arms today. By the time he’s done, he’s nearly out of breath, and inhales sharply before shoving another piece of bagel into his mouth. “What do I do?”

There’s a light groan on the other end of the phone, accompanied by a heavy sigh. _“I can’t believe you woke me up for this.”_

Isa glances at his watch and quickly does the math, backtracking to his home time zone. He knows full well Ventus rises with the sun, same as him. It’s how they were trained. “It’s eight am.”

 _“On my day_ **_off_ ** _,”_ Ventus whines. 

“You never sleep in.”

 _“Yeah, well, just this_ **_once_ ** _I wanted—”_ he goes quiet for a moment, and Isa can just barely make out another voice in the background, deep and scratchy with sleep. Ven’s voice returns, but it’s muted, like he’s holding the phone to his chest in a poor attempt to mask his words. _“Nah, it’s just Isa. He’s having a gay crisis.”_

“I’m not having a—” Isa starts, scowling, and that’s when he recognizes the low rumble of laughter that follows. He taps his foot against the cement as he listens to the shuffle of Ventus clamber out of bed and presumably pad down the hall to their living room before he hisses into the phone; “Vanitas? Really?”

 _“Hey, we’re not here to talk about_ **_my_ ** _poor taste in men, Isa—just yours,”_ Ventus hums, and there’s a click of a machine whirring to life. Probably the coffee machine. _“So, do you like him?”_

Isa nearly chokes. “What kind of question is that?”

He’s known Ventus nearly as long as he’s known Lea. They’d all grown up together, tossing frisbees on the sandy shores of their hometown, skin warming beneath the summer sun. Kids who’d been happy and bright, who’d held so much laughter in their chests as they’d watched neighborhood kids (like Vanitas) wipe out on skateboards by the pier and shared sea salt ice cream, feet dangling into the ocean. 

It was before things had gotten bad, before they’d drifted, before sharp words and poor decisions had split them apart like a knife through butter, lightning cleaving a tree in half. 

_“Well, are you attracted to him?”_

Isa’s face heats as his brain offers up an image of Lea laying amongst soft cream-coloured sheets, a peaceful look on his face as he slept. He thinks of the way the streetlights had danced like stars across the green expanse of his eyes the night before, when Isa’s thumb had brushed the corner of his mouth. He clears his throat loudly, and says, voice thick; “What?”

“ _Oh my god_.” Exasperation is a somewhat foreign lilt in Ventus’ voice, and Isa pictures him pinching the bridge of his nose. _“Nevermind. You’re in the middle of a mission, Isa, and you guys can’t—shouldn’t—do anything to compromise that. Aqua would have your head.”_

“I know that,” Isa huffs. 

_“Okay! So just…act like it’s no big deal, right? You’re always telling me how to compartmentalize things.”_

The curve of his lips turns rueful. “You have a point.”

 _“Great! So it’s fine!”_ The chipper tone in Ventus’ voice sounds a little forced, but Isa welcomes it all the same, hoping to leech some of that positive energy from his co-worker and friend. _“Don’t be awkward!”_

An echo of footsteps in the courtyard draws Isa’s attention, and he looks up just in time to see Lea jog down the stairs towards him. Today’s Hawaiian shirt is a garish yellow, sporting a repeating pattern of dolphins jumping over a curling blue and white wave, and the sleeves are artfully torn off. Isa grimaces. 

“Easier said than done,” he whispers, and then ends the call on Ventus’ high and breezy laughter. He pockets the phone, finally inhales the chunk of bagel he’d ripped off earlier to free up a hand, and gestures to the food and drink he’d gotten the other man.

Lea’s eyes light up. “ _Two_ ? Oh, you _do_ love me.”

Isa swallows the food on his tongue, rolling his eyes. He watches Lea tear off the wrapper with inhuman speed, and devour at least half the breakfast burrito in one mouthful. He wrinkles his nose a little. “Is it too late to send you back and get a new husband?”

Lea bats his lashes, and surprisingly has the decency to put away the food in his maw before he speaks. “Who else would put up with you?”

“Put up with _me_?” Isa raises a brow, quirking his lips. “I’m sure anyone with more sense would’ve strangled you by now.”

It appears to be the wrong thing to say, or rather, just the _right_ thing to set off a mischievous twinkle in Lea’s eyes. “Oooh. Kinky.”

Isa’s ears burn, and he looks down at his bagel rather pointedly. “I hate you, truly.”

There’s the lightest tap on his nose, and his gaze whips up to see Lea pulling away a slender finger with a fond twist to one corner of his mouth. “Love you too, Blue.”

Isa _resolutely_ ignores the way his heart skips a traitorous beat, and shoves an entire half a bagel into his mouth. He hopes it’s as unattractive as it feels and he starts down the path towards the beach.

The surfboard rental shop is by the villa on the other side of the resort, so they walk quietly along the shore as they eat breakfast. Lea seems to come alive more and more with every minute, every scrap of food he devours and sip of caffeine he downs until there’s that familiar pep in his step again. By the time they’ve reached the place, he’s tossing his balled up wrappers and crushed coffee cup into the trash, and bounding up to the waiting attendant. 

There’s a sparkle to his eyes as he jokes with the guy, sliding his room card across the counter to link their rental boards to their names. As Lea cranes his neck back and laughs warmly, strands of red slip from his loose ponytail, catching in the light as they spill across his shoulder. Isa doesn’t miss the way the attendant’s eyes track the movement, nor the faint blush that creeps over his cheeks when Lea thanks him for his help. He lifts his hand in a timid wave as the redhead pulls away, a surfboard under each arm. 

Isa accepts the blue one without comment, and starts towards the water, hating the shameful burn of envy in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t even turn back to see if Lea follows, merely makes a beeline for the ocean, hoping that the sea might calm his whirling thoughts. What the _hell_ is wrong with him? He’s never been this out of sorts on a mission before, and it’s an unsettling realization that sits beneath the surface, an itch he can’t scratch.

(The answer is obvious, but it’s not something he’s willing to unpack now. Or ever, really.)

They’re only a few paces from the water when Lea’s elbow knocks gently against his to catch his attention. When Isa looks up, he’s met with a muted smile, something hesitant in his eyes that the other man can’t quite decipher. 

“Hey,” Lea says softly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Isa says a little too quickly. A single red brow rises in unwritten question, and it leaves him sighing heavily. “You just—you make friends with everyone.” 

There’s a pinch of skin between his eyes, confusion turning the corners of his mouth downwards. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” This time the word sounds bitten off, and Isa slides his gaze to the bright and sunny horizon, instead of whatever shit-eating grin blooms on Lea’s lips in response.

“Sure sounds like it.” There’s a beat, a shuffling of feet, and then Lea’s leaning into his space, bumping the tip of his surfboard against Isa’s. “Are you jeaaaaalous, Blue?”

Shame burns up his throat, and Isa chokes it down with a scowl. He thinks of the surfboard attendant, of the waiter at dinner, of even the clerk at check-in on their first day—how easy it was, every time, for Lea to dazzle them with a smile and a handful of words. How the comfortable, flirtatious attitude that he carries is something he uses with everyone, an infectious light he was born with, that has shone bright for years.

“It’s not, it’s just—” Frustration bubbles beneath his skin, white-hot as it crawls up his spine, and Isa recognizes the urge a mile out. He takes a step away from Lea, and digs his board into the wet sand by the water. His shoulders hunch, and he turns back to look at the redhead, face twisted with guilt and anger alike. It bleeds into his words, and Isa is well aware of the weakness he’s exposing to the other man—the ugly truth that sits in his veins day in and day out, a constant shadow haunting Isa’s every difficult, stilted interaction with people. 

“It just comes so easy to you. Even before, when you—” the words catch in his throat, and his face burns as if he can feel the injury across the bridge of his nose like it’s new, “—you were a terrible person, y’know? And people _still_ loved you.”

There’s a long pause, and Lea’s mouth opens once or twice with false starts. He digs his own surfboard into the sand, and his brow furrows with a deep frown. “Do you… not think people like you?”

Isa’s laugh is humourless and dry. “I know they don’t. After all, I’ve only had one friend my whole life.” 

Lea looks like he wants to dispute this, a fact that Isa finds hilarious, considering the redhead had been the one to approach Ventus when he’d moved to the neighborhood all those years ago, to invite him to play with them. The fact that he’d stuck to Isa like glue after things had fallen apart had always sort of been a surprise, albeit a welcome one.

(And though that friendship had lasted through joining the FBI program side by side, training, and eventually made them roommates—it had also brought him Aqua and Terra, as well. Relationships that only served to highlight what Isa had always known: he’s an incredibly difficult person to get along with.

So while he knows Aqua respects him, and Terra admires him, he also knows it doesn't mean they _like_ him. Most days, it’s pretty clear they only sort of tolerate him, both professionally and for Ventus’ sake.)

Isa shrugs off the melancholy stretching silently between them. “It’s not like I really try, either.”

Lea’s face softens, and his fingertips worry at the hem of his shirt, his toe kicking gently at the sand beneath him. His tone sounds almost _wounded_ when he speaks again, words far quieter than Isa’s heard him yet. In fact, he’s certain that if they weren’t standing so close together, he might’ve missed them entirely. 

“Well it… helps that I have a lot of practice lying to people, y’know?” The smile he offers doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Isa wonders how the hell they ended up here, so close yet so far from one another and who they’d once been. He reaches up to rub at his neck, and a forced laugh pinches in his throat. “If you—hah—if you want, we don’t have to do this.”

He gestures to the surfboards in the sand next to them, but Isa knows he’s talking about bigger things than just today’s lesson. His shoulders hang in defeat, and a somber air casts a shadow over his normally infallible cheer. “Or any of it, really. We can canvas the dinner tonight separately, if you need—we’ll just tell people we’re fighting, y’know? Marital issues are all the rage, I hear.”

(Isa remembers Lea climbing through his window on cold nights when the raised voices next door kept him from sleeping. He remembers tear-stained cheeks, whispered promises in the dark, and the warmth of a young boy held close beneath a canopy of blankets.)

Isa’s fingers are trembling when he inches forward, dropping his head to rest on Lea’s shoulder. He feels the other man freeze beside him, and he whispers his next admission into the collar of his disgustingly bright shirt. “I don’t want that. I don’t want space from you, I just— _ugh_.”

Slowly, hesitantly, as if his touch might shatter whatever fragile moment is building between them, Lea’s arms wind around his waist, pulling him into a hug. Isa’s whole body tenses up, shock coiling along his spine, and the seconds tick by before he realizes he should reciprocate. Before he realizes he _wants_ to. His hands steady, resting somewhere between Lea’s shoulder blades, palms flat against his back. 

“I want to be better at this,” Isa admits, though the words sucker-punch him on the way out. He isn’t sure if he means the mission, this whole undercover thing, or his own personal relationships, but they all weigh heavily on him, dragging him beneath the current.

“You’re better at this than you think,” Lea’s voice is barely a whisper, but his heartbeat in Isa’s ears is nearly deafening. He listens to it for the length of a few breaths, matching his own to it, before Lea speaks again. It’s tentative and quiet, and it throws him a little, because timid isn’t a word he’s ever used to describe the redhead. “Can we… can we get in the water now?”

Isa pulls back, blinking at the other man. “Are you sure? I remember you… weren’t a fan of water, when we were kids.” He’s being polite in his phrasing of the other man’s intense phobia.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Lea shrugs. 

“I know, but—well, I just don’t want you doing it because _I_ want to, okay?” And he means it, too. Not that he’d ever think _anyone_ could just tell the redhead what to do, but ever since they’d become partners, Isa has noticed a pattern. A persistent thing that had been present even before this mission, when they’d only worked together on frustrating occasions. _Whatever you want_ this and _wherever you go_ that. His lips purse around the words. “I want you to have an opinion.”

Something he can’t quite decipher crosses over Lea’s gaze in response, and for the briefest of moments there’s a faraway look in his eyes. Time is a careful crawl where Isa can count every second in the other man’s breath against his collarbone, and then the moment finally breaks, a glass tipping over a table’s edge and shattering across the wooden floor. 

The redhead’s tongue darts over his upper lip, and his mouth curves up at the sides in a way that’s all too familiar. It’s followed by a green glint of mischief, and Lea taking all the warmth with him as he steps away, reaching for his board. “Aww, that’s so sweet, Blue!”

Isa’s eyes roll skyward, but in secret, he’s a little grateful for the other man’s distance, for the easy break of… whatever had been building between them, there. 

Whatever it is, it’s something they simply don’t have time for.

* * *

Isa adjusts his black tie with unsteady fingers, giving his reflection a once-over.

For a man who spends most of his regular work hours in a suit and tie, he finds it strange that he wears this one with such discomfort. But he supposes that’s the problem with it not being plain Bureau slacks, and instead a suit he’s only worn once—for Aqua and Terra’s wedding. 

It’s a navy two-piece he’d bought to match the other bridesmates on Aqua’s side, though the suits he and Sora had worn had been just a fraction of a shade darker than Kairi’s dress. The crisply pressed white shirt is his own, as is the pale blue pocket square tucked against his chest. He’s had it since his eighth grade graduation, when his mother had embroidered the little yellow moon on it for good luck.

(He’d never told her it had been pointless, since he’d chickened out of asking Lea to dance that night. He wonders, perhaps, if it’ll bring him better luck this time.)

As if on cue, there’s a shuffling of feet to his right and the click of a lightswitch, and he looks away from the writing desk mirror to see Lea exit the bathroom, dressed and ready to go. His black slacks somehow make him look even taller than he is, a stark contrast to the bright red suit jacket hugging his torso. As he moves cautiously towards Isa, the overhead lights catch on the swirly, velvety pattern of it, and on the sun-shaped pins adorning the collar of his black dress shirt, gold chain dangling across his tie. 

(The words catch in Isa’s throat at the sight of them, well-aware of what year they’re from.)

The fit is _expensive_ , and Isa wonders if this is something Naminé purchased for him on the Bureau’s tab, or if it’s something he had, before. He looks—good. Very good. Swoon-worthy, if Isa did that sort of thing.

(Which he definitely doesn’t.)

There’s a multitude of compliments running through his head, each one more pointed than the last, and the thought of them warms the back of Isa’s neck, a heat that creeps across his cheeks as he meets Lea halfway. The redhead adjusts his posture a little awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck—now on display, given his hair is pulled into a loose bun. He looks almost… nervous.

“Your tie is crooked,” is all that manages to come out, and though the words burn on his tongue and he sort of wants to kick himself for being so lame, Lea’s mouth quirks with a smile, so Isa considers it a win. Without overthinking the move, he reaches up to fix it, fingers sliding around the satin accessory with ease. “What kind of professional can’t even tie his own tie, _Agent Solis_?”

That does the trick, too. The green of his eyes brightens in the lowlights, jovial laugh tumbling from his lips in a way that dimples his cheeks. “Maybe the kind that’s trying to sucker his partner into doing it for him, _Agent Lyall_.” His voice is pitched with a sultry amusement that tightens Isa’s throat, and he hopes like hell his heartbeat, traitorously thunderous in his chest, isn’t palpable at such close proximity. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Lea speaks again, words dancing along the tip of Isa’s nose, fingers tugging gently on the hem of his navy jacket. “Is that a hidden gun in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

His face heats, no doubt flushing with colour, but Isa doesn’t dare turn away. His brain hitches, stumbling over the words like a record player’s broken needle, and his eyes dip to Lea’s mouth, watching his tongue lick across his bottom lip. When his gaze flickers back up, there’s only the barest hint of seafoam behind large, dark pupils, and Isa feels like his heart is going to break straight through his ribcage and into the open air. 

The pull between is magnetic, a gravitational free fall that draws them together, slowly, and then all at once. Isa’s eyes begin to flutter shut, and Lea’s trembling hand has slipped from sleeve to elbow, tugging the other man forward just slightly, both of them angling their heads so that—

A loud trilling has them jerking apart, and Isa spins on his heel, hunting for the noise with a wide, startled gaze. 

The intercom by the door is blinking bright green, and the shrill tone has now softened to some sort of jovial jingle. It lasts only a moment, before a low, accented voice replaces it. “Dinner begins in fifteen minutes. We do hope you’ll join us.”

Lea’s voice is shaky behind him, bitter laugh hot and clammy on the back of his neck. “I guess that’s our cue.”

“Yeah,” Isa says, before letting himself take a deep breath. He straightens his shoulders on the exhale, and doesn’t look back at the redhead as he heads for the door. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They walk to dinner in silence. 

It’s a short distance from their villa to the main resort building, but the quiet makes it feel like an eternity. Their steps echo in the courtyard like rocks falling in a canyon, the chasm between them doesn’t feel terribly different. The ledge they both walk on is precarious, and Isa can feel the desire to free fall still in his throat, clogging it like his tie is serving better as a noose than an accessory.

It takes him considerable effort to remember to breathe, and even then, it’s unsteady. The scene in their hotel room plays on loop in his head, a broken record that skips, static with feedback, and restarts the moment their lips are about to touch. 

_(God_ , he’d almost kissed _Lea_.

And—and he’s certain _Lea_ had almost kissed him _back_.) 

Beside him, the redhead keeps to himself, the lack of his ever present chatter creating an incredibly eerie quiet. There’s no bounce to his step, and there seems to be a tightness to his shoulders that accompanies him the whole way to the restricted wing, dress shoes clinking against the tiled floors of the main resort.

They’re greeted at the entrance of the large, intricate French doors by two men in white suits, one of whom gives the invitation Isa pulls from his pocket a mere cursory glance before smiling stiffly and ushering them inside. The doors creak loudly as they swing open, and echo hauntingly in the dining hall beyond as they whisper shut behind him and Lea.

The room is _huge_ , and unlike anywhere else on the resort grounds.

Gone are the calming creams and warm browns that’s prevalent across their villa and recreational buildings. Instead, the wood floors here are cold, made of stiff maple, or perhaps bleached bamboo, and the walls are a freezing, stark white. Thick, marble pillars stretch floor to ceiling along the sides of the room like a runway, the tall, potted fern at the base of each and on either side of the door the only spot of colour in the room. At the very center lies a long table draped in white cloth and silver place settings. 

With a careful, quick glance, Isa counts a total of thirteen chairs—six along each side, with one at the very head. Even from here, he can see the little name cards, vaguely reminiscent of a wedding. Some are still sitting in front of a plate waiting to be claimed, while others have been moved or knocked over—presumably by the guests already milling about. 

The rest of the wait staff is dressed in white suits just like the two at the door, and sprinkled about the room like stars, carrying shimmery silver platters of food. There’s little wrapped meats, brightly coloured vegetables stacked on silver skewers, and what appear to be a variety of tiny toasted sandwiches, or cheeses stacked between crackers. 

Lea curses softly beside him, and Isa glances over.

“This is…,” Lea trails off. He doesn’t meet Isa’s gaze, seafoam eyes wide and dancing rapidly left and right, soaking it all in, but he shuffles a little closer, his elbow gently tucking into Isa’s side. The tense line of his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed, either.

_Unsettling. Eerie. Really just… creepy._

“Yeah,” Isa agrees softly.

Before he has a chance to say more, a waitress seemingly appears out of nowhere, balancing a tray of tall flutes with bright, bubbling liquid. She offers each of them one with a placid smile, and while Lea accepts, Isa’s nose wrinkles.

“Oh, uh, no thank you. I’m not a… fan of champagne,” he says as politely as he can manage. Lea snorts into his glass, while the young woman simply blinks at him, expression unchanging. He shuffles his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Um—”

“Is there somewhere he could get beer?” Lea helps him out, leaning forward to pluck the second flute off the tray. It’s like flicking a switch, the moment the flute disappears, his words seem to register, and the girl’s smile brightens.

“Oh! Of course,” she nods, dipping her head and folding the tray under her arm. She points towards a counter at the back of the room. “Open bar!”

And then she’s gone, as silently and strangely as she came. 

Isa opens his mouth with a whispered warning of “I don’t think you should drink—” only to see Lea dump both champagne flutes into the potted plant to his left. 

“Oops, pretty clumsy of me,” the redhead winks, then taps him on the back. He glances towards the rest of the room with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What’s say I mingle, and you get us replacement drinks, huh?”

Isa hears the suggestion for what it is—he’ll read the room and investigate the other guests, while Isa does a cursory sweep and keeps an eye out for anything odd or out of place. 

(Still, it leaves him with an ache between his ribs, a sort of unrest synonymous with being left behind.)

He nods, and slips the two empty glasses from Lea’s hand, resolutely ignoring the way his skin burns as though he’s brushed against coals, rather than Lea’s slender fingers. He steps away, his oxfords clacking against the pale wood floors as he walks the room in a wide arc, gaze tracking each guest one by one and assessing.

Marluxia and Larxene are the easiest to spot, the pink of his suit and the gold of her dress easily outshining everyone else in attendance. Her head is thrown back in a shrill laugh that echoes off the high ceilings, and Isa ignores the way it twists his insides, because he knows Lea is the cause, judging by the proud grin stretching his lips as he approaches. 

Not far from them is the awkward couple they’d met at dinner the other night—Demyx’s mohawk is fluffier, less harshly gelled, and the indigo suit he wears matches Ienzo’s perfectly, although it looks a little too big on the shorter man. Neither are paying much attention to a tall man with blond, buzzed hair, a goatee, and piercings lining his ears. He seems to be showing them a card trick, and Isa shuffles past quickly.

Already seated at the table are two men he recognizes from yoga class that first day. Aeleus and Dilan, he recalls. The larger of the two, with his brown hair slicked back, has his suit jacket off and draped around the second man’s chair, his arm leaning across the back as they whisper amongst themselves. Isa nods politely as they both glance his way in passing, and then continues on towards the bar.

Across the room, he spots the man who’d given them the invitation. Vexen’s standing by one of the pillars, with his fingers steepled in front of him and his shoulders a little hunched. He’s speaking to the only people in the room Isa hasn’t seen before. Their backs are to him, so he can’t tell for sure, but their tall frame, dark skin and long white hair seem to be identical. The only difference is in their suits—one wears a long, dramatic tailcoat in white, while the other is sporting simple black slacks and jacket.

He counts twelve in total by the time his hands slide the empty flutes home across the bar counter, and he finally tears his gaze away from the room to clear his throat at the bartender. The problem, of course, is that the man that turns is recognizable instantly, from the scar running jaggedly down the left side of his face, to the eyepatch covering the right.

Unlike the other day in the yoga studio, Braig’s hair is untied, falling in loose waves down to the middle of his back. He’s dressed in black slacks and a matching vest, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled to his elbows. There’s a splash of colour in his red tie, and Isa’s eyes catch on the velveteen swirls adorning it as Braig smirks, leaning his elbows on the countertop.

“Well, well, lookin’ fancy, Blue.”

His lips purse. The nickname feels strange, coming from Braig’s lips. “It’s Isa.”

“Oh, I know.” It’s evident in his tone that the other man is teasing, but he bristles all the same. He plucks the two empty champagne flutes off the counter, depositing them next to the ice bucket containing a tall, blue bottle. His fingers are a hair’s breadth away when Isa speaks up.

“Oh, no thank you.” Braig raises an eyebrow at him. “My partner and I aren’t big on champagne.”

He hums, pushing them towards the sink instead. There’s a strange twinkle in his eyes when he turns back to face Isa, corner of his mouth curving. “So, what’ll you and your _partner_ have? I think the idea’s to serve yourself, but I don’t mind mixin’ you a drink or two.”

Isa nearly grimaces. A thoughtless force of habit, the way he’d worded things—and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was a stupid slip, and not the kind he can afford on a mission like this. He tries for something more welcoming in his smile, drumming his fingers on the countertop as he speaks. “I’ll just take a beer, but my husband’s a fan of anything with rum and fruits.”

His one good eye flickers down, catching on the glint of gold around Isa’s left ring finger as intended. Braig’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the glint in his brown gaze darkens a little as it climbs back up, slowly taking in Isa’s appearance. “He has good taste.”

Somehow, Isa doesn’t think he’s talking about alcohol. 

He’s quick with the beer, opening the bottle with a bit of a flourish and holding it out to Isa. If their fingers brush as he accepts the chilled beverage, Isa does his best not to comment, bringing it to his lips to gutter any further chance at conversation. There’s a tightness in his chest, a discomfort that sits heavily in the pit of his stomach as he watches Braig mix Lea’s drink, something that’s one part orange and one part yellow and smells like ten kinds of citrus.

His eyes rarely ever stray far from Isa. 

“Newlyweds?” Braig asks conversationally, his wrist rolling the metal shaker around. He would think the ruckus it makes would be enough to distract from conversation, but it appears he’ll have no such luck tonight. 

“Yep.” The word is tight enough to pop at the end. He wishes with everything he had that he’d simply dropped off the glasses and walked away. 

“Hmm, pity,” the unofficial bartender hums again. There’s a few awkward, tense breaths where he stares at Isa like he’s expecting a reaction, and then the moment passes. He splashes the liquid over domes of ice in a tall glass, and slides it towards Isa with a wink. “Well, if you change your mind.”

Isa notes that there, tucked under the base of the glass, is a folded napkin and some scribbled numbers. He wonders, jaw slack, just when the hell the other man had had the time to write it down, or if he’d perhaps seen him coming earlier and prepared it.

Neither option sits well in his throat, and every answer, polite or blunt, turns to dust on his tongue. He can’t quite wrap his brain around the exchange, and he’s left to ponder it alone when Braig slips out from behind the bar and saunters off. Braig’s fingers brush his shoulder on the way past, and Isa’s hands nearly stiffen enough to drop the drinks he’s holding.

When he turns, intent on scurrying away and leaving the napkin number behind, he nearly collides with his—with Lea. There’s a dull amusement twinkling in his eyes and dancing in the corners of his mouth. He looks down at Isa’s hands, and slips his fingers around the drink destined for him. The ice from the chilled glass isn’t enough to offset the warmth that seeps from his skin.

He drowns it out by taking a few large gulps of his beer, focusing instead on that flood of heat down his throat and through his chest. 

Lea looks at him over the rim of his drink. “You know he was hitting on you, yeah?”

For some reason, this makes Isa frown. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“Might’ve been.” His tone is nonchalant, but there’s something else burning in his gaze, something dark and cloudy. It turns his eyes a little more green than usual.

Isa can’t help himself. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” He sips at his drink, the single word coming slow and almost forcibly to his lips. Isa raises an eyebrow. It’s an obvious falsehood even he can hear, which means a practiced liar like Lea made no effort to truly mask it. “Are you interested?”

Isa scowls. What kind of question is that? “Not particularly, no.”

Lea’s surprise is a crack of lightning across his eyes, flaring brief and bright before it’s gone, replaced with a neutral expression. “Why not? He’s hot.”

“Yeah, but—” Isa pauses, staring in disbelief. He can’t tell if Lea’s joking or not. 

But _what_ , exactly?

It’s not like they’re actually married. Or together, at all. And despite whatever the hell nearly happened in their hotel room earlier, it doesn’t change the fact that they’re currently _on mission_.

Isa clears his throat, looking away from him and towards the rest of the room. His voice drops to a low whisper only his partner can hear. “I’m not interested. Plus, it would kind of blow our cover.”

Beside him, Lea’s weight shuffles from one foot to another, and Isa turns to face him when he sips a tad more forcefully from his drink than before. There’s discomfort hunching his shoulders, and his grip on his drink tightens. “That’s good. I don’t think I… I’m not good at sharing my things.”

The words are an arrow fired straight through Isa’s chest. The fingers of his right hand tap a nervous beat against his thigh, matching pace with the heart thundering in his chest, the pulse fluttering in his wrist. His tongue feels heavier in his mouth, making the words harder to form. His voice is a strangled thing, low in his throat, as he manages to croak: “Lea, about earlier—”

A jingling of bells fills the hall, bouncing to the heavens and back, ricocheting off pillars and tableware with a crystal clarity. It’s only slightly less aggravating than it had been in their room, but Isa still idly thinks about dismantling every intercom in the resort. Perhaps he’ll ask for that as his mission souvenir, or something. 

Lea’s sigh is heavy, crashing over him like an ocean wave, and though he takes Isa’s hand, leading him towards the dinner table, it’s like he can feel the tension swell between them with every step, a water balloon filled to bursting. 

They find their name plates across the table from Larxene and Marluxia, who both greet him warmly. He settles his beer on a coaster, and doesn’t miss the way Lea’s hand lingers in his a few moments longer than necessary, before he untangles and slips away to run fingers through his unruly hair. 

Larxene leans forward, tapping long, sharp black nails against her plate in a way that clinks and grates slightly on Isa’s nerves. “Fancy seeing you guys here! _Weird_ that we all got the same invite, huh?”

He chooses not to answer, and instead smiles politely at her. “We figured it was the perfect excuse to dress up—I see you thought the same.”

“Larxene’s never happy unless she’s the star of the party,” Marluxia draws, swirling a small paper umbrella through a drink that glitters several different colours. Lea snickers, and there’s a thump beneath the table that has cutlery rattling and Marluxia’s glossy lips parting around a curse. Larxene bats her lashes as him, the picture of false innocence. 

“Oops,” she grins, wide as a cheshire cat. 

Marluxia scowls, but whatever he dips closer to say to her is lost to the ding of a knife tapping against a glass. It pops the small and amiable bubble the four of them have settled into, and Isa tears his gaze away from them to look up the table. The man at the head is one of the two he’d spotted Vexen talking to earlier, in the white tailcoat. The inside lining of his jacket is black, as is the bowtie sitting at his throat.

“Welcome, and thank you all _so_ much for coming,” he says, voice low and accented—Isa thinks it might be the one they’d heard through the intercom in their room earlier. “My name is Xemnas, and my brother Ansem and I are honoured to have you here as guests.”

The man to his right nods stiffly, holding up a champagne glass in toast. While the twin standing—despite their slightly different hairstyles, Isa’s _sure_ they’re twins—looks put together, and very much all business, the one seated has the top few buttons of a white dress shirt popped open, revealing a tanned chest and hints of a tattoo. The tilt to his lips looks almost bored. 

“Some of you are long-time patrons, while others are new faces for us,” Xemnas continues, and Isa doesn’t miss the way his gold eyes flicker over to him and Lea. A warmth presses against his back, and though he doesn’t dare look away from the strange man addressing them, he can tell Lea’s arm has looped around the back of his chair when he spots his partner’s fingers curl gently around his upper arm. “But you’ve all partaken in the wide variety of activities our resort has to offer, and so we wanted to thank you for making _Destiny Islands_ such a worthwhile experience. We do hope you enjoy.”

“And stick around for his dumb experiment, after you eat!” Ansem pipes up, downing the sparkling liquid in his glass. Xemnas rolls his eyes, but holds up his own drink nonetheless. 

His laugh is a little tight around the edges. “Yes, _well_ —what my brother means to say, is that if it isn’t too much trouble, we’d love to hear from you the ways in which you enjoyed your time here, and what you think we could improve upon, for the betterment of future guests. But first— _bon appetit!_ ” 

And the fleet of wait staff hovering at the outskirts of the room sweep in on a wave, dipping past the dinner guests to deposit platters of food in front of everyone. Some of the appetizers from earlier return, stacked on large silver tiers that land between them, while a warm, orange-coloured soup and accompanying salad is placed directly in front of each guest. 

Lea’s practically salivating next to him, and Isa’s lips curl with a certain fondness when he hears the redhead’s stomach growl. Gently, he pries Lea’s fingers away from his shoulder, and nods towards the food. “Dig in, you dork.”

It’s not the most endearing pet name, but it still elicits a dazzling smile that leaves Isa breathless. He considers it a win, and tucks into his own meal quietly, cheeks burning.

Lea devours his first two courses, and the three that come afterwards, with the same reverence he’s always given food. Ever since they were kids, Lea has been racing to the imaginary finish line long before anyone else. The moment he’s done, he leans back in his chair, pointedly scooting it a few inches to the right—towards Isa. As he resumes his earlier conversation with Larxene and Marluxia, his arm slides home around the back of Isa’s seat as though it’s second nature.

The only thing that hints otherwise is the blush creeping across his cheeks. 

Larxene teases him mercilessly for it the moment she notices, while Marluxia comments that it’s nice to finally see him happy, after all this time. Lea’s laugh is easy and loose, but he doesn’t look at Isa as he says; “Finding your person will do that to you, I guess.”

The words unexpectedly strike at Isa like a match, stoking the quiet fire that’s been burning in his gut for days. The sparks rise up through his ribcage, crackling with the resonant whispers of _safe_ and _home_ as he sits there, in the warmth of Lea’s presence, the redhead’s thumb rubbing gently back and forth on his arm. 

Isa thinks that in another life, he might enjoy their company. In fact, as they chatter away, trading barbs and anecdotes back and forth with Lea, he closes his eyes, and imagines them sitting on a porch of a beachside home not unlike the one he’d grown up in, finishing dinner with their guests under the glow of sunset.

It surprises him, the wave of longing that crashes over him, a long buried childhood dream drifting back into focus. The people sitting across from them had been different, back then—Ventus and a faceless boyfriend, if Isa remembers right—but the comfort and resonant _want_ nestled tightly in his chest is the same as ever. As though the years of being at odds with one another, of trying to hate him, to put distance between them because of what happened when they were young, broken teenagers—it’s done nothing to dampen the desire for that most secret of futures he keeps buried deep. 

And it seems like he isn’t the only one reminiscing on the past, judging by the story Lea’s telling.

It’s a modified version of how they’d met again, years after they’d gone their separate ways as kids. He’s making it up on the spot, Isa knows, because it’s slightly different than the one the Bureau had prepped for them. It’s softer, kinder to them both.

To Isa, especially.

Almost as if Lea can sense him watching, he pauses mid-sentence, and glances towards Isa, a gentle smile still playing around his lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” Isa finds himself smiling back. “I like when you tell this story.”

There’s a warmth glowing in the depths of Lea’s gaze as he leans forward, and for the briefest of moments, Isa thinks he’s about to kiss him. Instead, he simply brushes their noses together, an affectionate gesture that still has Isa’s heart rocketing into his throat, despite the smallest flare of disappointment in his gut.

_Seriously, what’s gotten into me?_

“What was that for?” His voice is a little shaky, but he finds courage in Lea’s smile, and the way he lingers before pulling back. 

“Nothing,” Lea grins, shrugging one shoulder. “I just like you.”

Isa’s stomach bottoms out, his breath catching in his throat. He’s sure, at such close proximity, it’s evident to the other man, but he tries very hard not to think about this. He chooses, instead, to focus on the joy crinkling the corners of Lea’s eyes, and his happy, slanted smile. The way pink cherry blossoms scatter over Lea’s freckles, blooming in his cheeks like spring.

“I kinda like you too.” Isa reaches up to tuck a lock of red hair behind Lea’s ear, and the other man clears his throat, turning back to Larxene and Marluxia. He picks up from where he’d left off in the story as though he’d never paused at all, and his head shifts just enough as he speaks that Isa catches sight of Vexen at the other side of the room.

The man whispers something to the wait staff by the door, and then slips out quietly.

It’s probably nothing. He is, in all likelihood, stepping out to the washroom, or for a smoke, or any number of other things. It isn’t _inherently_ suspicious.

But something itches beneath Isa’s skin, and as he sits there counting the seconds, staring at the doors, the glow of dinner and Lea’s company fades, leaving behind a grim reminder of the evening’s unanswered questions and their mission here.

Isa polishes off the rest of his beer, and slides his chair back enough to stand. Lea’s arm falls away, and he looks up, arching a brow. “Drink went through me,” he says, making sure their present company hears. And then he dips down to drop a kiss to Lea’s cheek, bringing him close enough to whisper; “Vexen slipped out. I’m going to tail him.”

And then he walks away, headed for the exit, not waiting for a response or a reaction.

He’s a few paces from the doors when it hits him, what he just did. His heart climbs into his throat, and a wave of anxiety rolls through him. Isa babbles something about needing air to the two attendants, and they nod, pulling the doors open for him.

He spots a flash of blond hair disappearing around the corner down the hall, and after checking to make sure no one is watching him, Isa gives chase. He slips his phone from his pocket and dials Ventus as he goes, figuring it’ll offer him the cover of a distracted conversationalist if anyone catches him—and because he _actually_ needs to talk to the other man.

He picks up on the second ring. _“Dude, I_ **_so_ ** _don’t have time for another one of your Lea Spirals.”_

“Firstly, I don’t have _spirals_ ,” Isa hisses into the receiver, scowling. “Secondly, _if_ I did—well, uh—remember how you asked me if I liked him?”

 _“Yes,”_ Ventus sighs, and the creak of his office chair in the background tells Isa he’s still at work. _“Do you?”_

There’s a long pause wherein Isa considers the events of the last few days, of the two almost kisses, and the way his thoughts had drifted during dinner to blissfully domestic fantasies he hasn’t been foolish enough to entertain since he was young. “Maybe?”

Ventus snorts. _“Dude. Isa. Come_ **_on_ ** _. You can’t just be figuring this out now.”_

“And why not?” Isa glances over his shoulder, then ducks around the corner he’d seen Vexen vanish into earlier. The hall is empty, no sign of the other man. There’s a single door about twenty paces ahead he could’ve slipped through, and so Isa moves slowly, carefully, only half listening to Ventus.

_“Because I’ve been watching you two flirt since day one? And I don’t just mean this mission.”_

“That’s not true.” The words sound hollow, even to his ears.

 _“Yes, it is.”_ There’s an exasperated sigh, and Isa pictures Ventus pinching the bridge of his nose again. His chair creaks again, and there’s a whoosh of air that means he’s begun spinning it, the way he does when he wants to think over a problem out loud. _“Personally, I wonder when it happened—you two falling for each other, I mean. Was it when we were kids? You were always closer to each other than Vanitas and I.”_

Isa reaches the door and slides his free hand around the handle, tugging gently. It slides open with a soft hiss, and he peeks through the crack into the area beyond. It’s a small white room, devoid of any furniture or people. Frowning, Isa slips through while Ventus prattles on in his ear.

_“Maybe when he hit his punk phase in our teens just as he was getting mixed up with the wrong crowd? You always did have a thing for bad boys.”_

“Please, shut up,” Isa hisses, face heating. He scowls, both at the empty room he’s now standing in, and at Ventus’ statement. 

_“Maybe it was when you two reunited years later and he held a knife to your throat. That also sounds—”_

Isa never discovers _what_ it sounds like, exactly, because the moment he approaches what looks to be a strange discoloured panel in the room, fingers reaching out to touch, pain flares at the back of his skull, and his vision swims, dark as the ocean depths. 

* * *

Marluxia’s in the middle of a story about suffering Larxene and his sister flirting their way through dinner last time Strelitzia had been home from school when Lea starts to worry. It’s been ten minutes since Isa slipped away to tail Vexen, and while Lea knows he can handle himself— 

His phone buzzes, low but incessant in his pocket, and the redhead frowns. There are very few people with the number, and given that it’s only to be used for emergencies, well… 

When he sees Ven’s name flash across the screen, panic flares in his throat. He stands abruptly enough that his chair scrapes loudly across the smooth floor. Marluxia and Larxene pause, looking up at him—along with most of the table. He offers a wide grin to the room, sliding on a sheepish mask to hide the way his mouth tastes like cotton.

“Sorry,” Lea chuckles, holding up his phone. “Work emergency.”

And he heads for the entrance without waiting to see how the half-truth lands. He picks up just steps from the double doors. “What’s wrong?”

“ _Thank god,_ ” Ven’s gentle voice is pitched with worry, and it only escalates Lea’s nerves. _“Something happened. Agent Lyall was on the phone with me and it sounded like—like he got hit, or something. The line went dead right after, and the GPS isn’t pinging anymore.”_

“He was following a lead,” Lea whispers, throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure he’s far enough from the staff not to be heard. He does a slow circle, frowning as he takes in his surroundings. “Talk to me, Ven. Where am I going?”

_“There’s a hallway to your left, it loops south. Last ping was thirty, maybe forty feet from you.”_

“Got it,” Lea hums, letting his feet carry him forward to the panicked beat of his heart. “Why was he even on the phone with you? I’m pretty sure ‘Don’t Call Your Best Friend’ isn’t in the FBI manual for discreetly tailing a suspect.”

 _“Yeah, well, he seems to be going off book a lot on this mission,”_ Ven’s laugh is light and breezy, but there’s a tightness to his voice that Lea knows all too well. He nearly freezes in his tracks, a pause enough to ask why there’s a weight to Ven’s words, but thinks better of it. Not when Isa might be in danger.

The urgency in his step brings him around the corner on a squealing shoe, and his heart rockets into his throat when he sees the open door at the end of the hall. Even from here, Lea can see the small, flat cell phone sitting in the center of a square, empty room, and the glass scattered around it. He swears, colourfully, and picks up the pace. 

_“Talk to me, Solis.”_ Ven’s voice reminds him he’s still on a call.

“His phone’s fucked, and there’s no sign of him.” The glass of Isa’s cell is shattered, and when Lea crouches to tap the screen, it doesn’t even light up. He stands, eyes scanning the small room for a clue, a sign, _anything_ to tell him what the hell happened to his partner, but it may as well be a padded cell, for all the good it does him. “Goddammit! I never should’ve let him go alone!” 

Lea kicks at the device in frustration. It hits the center panel of the wall in front of him and bounces back—but not before echoing hollow on the other side. “Wait, hold on. I think I found something.”

 _“What? What is it, Lea?”_ The pitch of his voice kicks up, and in the background, Lea can hear someone bark an order. Ventus leans away, hissing as he covers the receiver, but the words still filter through. _“Screw protocol, Terra! Isa’s in danger!”_

Lea lets them debate the finer points of name usage over secure lines, slipping the phone into his pocket to free his hands. His fingers dance along the seam of the panel, up and down, side to side, until he finds what he’s looking for—just off center, at hip height where a doorknob would typically be. The smallest depression in the wood/metal that clicks under the weight of Lea’s insistent hands, causing the whole thing to slide open with a soft hiss.

 _“Lea? Lea! Are you there? Answer me, dammit!”_ Ventus’ voice travels up to him, and Lea remembers that yet again, he’s left him on the line. He inhales deeply, aware that what he’s about to do will have consequences.

“Found a hidden doorway,” he says, receiver hovering near his mouth once more. “Gonna go through it.”

_“That’s not a good idea.”_

“Considering it’s likely where they took Isa? It’s a great idea,” Lea replies, stepping through the doorway and into the sterile expanse beyond. The walls are stark white and bleached with purpose, lacking the warmth from the rest of the resort, just like the banquet room. He’s sort of sensing a pattern, and it’s not one he likes. “In fact, I’m already doing it. Place looks sort of like a hospital? So that’s fun.”

Ventus sighs, and Lea barely resists the urge to snicker, because he just _knows_ the blond’s pinching his nose with his fingers to keep from saying something he’ll regret. _“Lea, stop what you’re doing and wait. Terra’s calling you back up right now. You’re unarmed, and technically not allowed to—”_

“Oh no, _shrrrrrt_ —there appears to be—low signal, Ven, I—” He lies into the receiver, sucking air between clenched teeth for effect. “Can’t—you, anymo—”

He hangs up, swiping the phone’s system into silent mode as he does. It’s risking an override, and almost certainly breaking more Bureau rules than he can afford, but at least the GPS will still be on to track him through uncharted waters for whatever backup Ventus thinks he’ll be able to send from four thousand miles away.

He exchanges the phone for the steak knife he slipped from the table, and stalks along the outer wall, his hand skimming the surface but not quite touching. Lea knows better than to leave his prints anywhere, afterall. The layout of the lab or hospital or _whatever_ nightmare he finds himself in is fairly direct, and pads down the hall, keeping an open ear for trouble. The first three rooms he passes are empty, a stark white that has discomfort crawling along his spine even with the lights dimmed.

The hall curves left up ahead of him, and there’s a light on in room number four that gives him pause—as do the hushed voices that filter out of the open door. Lea ducks beneath the window, and squints through the half-open blinds to see some sort of boardroom beyond. There’s a long table that stretches away from him, and two figures standing in front of a whiteboard that’s reminiscent of the one in the missing briefing room at headquarters. It’s covered in sticky notes and strings and photos obviously taken at the resort. 

Only, instead of the Bureau’s most wanted, there’s pictures of _him and Isa_ and every other dinner guest taped to the board. And while most of them are sporting huge red X’s—Marly, Larx and Lea himself not included—Isa’s is _circled_. Panic sparks in Lea’s chest like kindling, a brush fire that spreads through him as he leans closer to the door to listen in. 

“Are you sure?” The words are brittle, spoken with the low tremble of an old man.

“Absolutely, Master Xehanort. Your sons confirmed it at dinner,” comes the response, and something familiar scratches at Lea’s brain like a forgotten lyric when he hears the name. He can’t quite place it, but he _does_ know the voice that speaks it, and that has anger flaring in Lea’s veins. Of _course_ the creepy bastard that had handed Isa the invite personally is responsible for whatever the hell’s going on here. He can’t say neither of them didn’t see it coming, when that’s the very suspicion Isa had slipped away from dinner on. 

“He’ll be ready for the procedure shortly.”

 _Like hell he will_ , Lea thinks.

Taking a deep breath and keeping low to the ground, he darts past the door, pausing on the other side and holding his breath to ensure he doesn’t hear movement inside. When he still hears the distant hum of conversation inside the boardroom, he rises to his full height and slinks off down the hall, quiet but quick. He passes three more open and hauntingly empty rooms before he comes face to face with twin doors and the kind of round, porthole window he’s familiar with.

Lea swings them open, and his heart catapults straight into his throat at the sight of Isa, strapped to the operating room table beneath fluorescents and beeping machines. 

“Oh God.” Lea’s at his side in an instant, trembling hands reaching to shake his shoulders gently. “Isa? Isa, wake up—please, _please_ be okay, c’mon.”

There’s a groggy murmur, and his partner’s head rolls towards him. Green eyes blink open slowly, bleary against the bright lights, but they focus on Lea in a moment or so. His pupils are larger than they should be, and panic swells in Lea’s chest like a cluster of angry bees. “Lea?”

“I’m here.” His voice trembles, but his hand is steady as it slips from shoulder to cheek, his thumb just barely brushing over Isa’s skin. Lea’s breath hitches in his throat when Isa leans into the touch for the briefest of moments, and then it shatters like glass as his eyes flicker past him, taking in the room. 

“Wh—What are you doing here?” There’s panic in his voice, an ugly and unfamiliar thing to Lea’s ears.

“You think I was gonna let you have all the fun?” He tries for something lighthearted, hoping to lift the pressure squeezing at his lungs. His smile’s a little unsure, but his tone is gentle as his hands slip from Isa’s face to the straps keeping him anchored to the table. “Besides, I’d follow you anywhere, Blue. Now, let’s get you—”

“Lea, look out!”

There’s the bang of the door hitting the wall behind him, the whistle of fabric, and Lea has just enough time to duck out of the way before there’s a metal _ping_ off the side of the operating table. Lea’s knees bark in protest as he skids across the tiled floor, spinning around to face an angry, distressed Vexen.

“ _You_ ,” he hisses, brandishing the scalpel. “You were supposed to stay at dinner with your little friends.”

“I’ve never been good at following rules,” Lea smirks.

And then he launches himself at the other man. 

The element of surprise only gets him so far. Vexen stumbles back, knocking his hip into the operating table and cursing loudly, but the scrawny bastard is stronger than he looks. Lea’s fingers curl around his bony wrists, but he bares his teeth and tries hard to push back. When he realizes that won’t be possible, he shifts the scalpel in his hands, and jams it into the flesh of Lea’s hand between thumb and index finger.

“Fuck!” The redhead hisses, but he doesn’t dare let go. He grits his teeth and slams his head forward, knocking his skull against Vexen’s. He watches the other man’s eyes roll backwards, and it’s the opening he needs to loosen his grip and kick him square in the chest, sending him sliding across the floor and into the wall on the far side of the room. He stays down for the count, and Lea’s sigh is heavy with relief.

“Are you okay?” He turns to see Isa’s sitting up, having undone the rest of his restraints during the scuffle. There’s concern blooming across his face even though he still looks a little out of it and Lea smiles fondly at him.

“Yeah, I’m—fine,” he inhales sharply as he pulls the scalpel out of his skin, twirling it between undamaged fingers. He points it at Isa as his grin widens, his tone almost chipper again, teasing. “Y’know, this was easier when I could kill people.”

He’s rewarded with the predictable yet fond roll of Isa’s eyes, and considers it a win. Lea steps closer, his knees knocking against the other man’s where they’re now draped over the edge of the bed, and he opens his mouth to say something—anything—to express just how relieved he is that Isa’s okay, when a cold voice interrupts.

“The feeling is mutual.” There’s a deafening thunderclap in Lea’s ears, and it’s only when a sharp, white-hot pain flares to life in his leg that Lea realizes it’s a gunshot. The bullet’s impact buckles his knee, and he goes down hard against the tiles for the second time in as many minutes. His vision vignettes, but he sees the splash of red against sterile white, and his brain starts a prayer-like chant of _fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

Lea crumples, and amidst the ringing in his ears, he can hear Isa calling for him. Strong hands settle on his shoulder and face, and his vision fills with blue hair and worried green eyes, framed by a scar that still haunts his dreams at night. 

“I’m okay,” he wheezes, but the pain screaming from his thigh all the way to the top of his spine says something different. Isa’s hands don’t leave him—the fingers on his shoulder tighten just enough to hurt, and the hand caressing his face moves to apply pressure to the wound, instead—but his eyes do, flicking away to glare at the old man standing in the doorway. 

“Yes, well—you’re worth more to me alive,” he says, and Lea recognizes his voice from the boardroom. He recognizes his face, too. Bald head, terrible choice in facial hair, chilling gold eyes sunken into his wrinkled skull. 

Xehanort. 

He’s old money, hands in all sorts of pockets. A criminal mastermind mentioned only in hushed whispers and reverent tones even in the circles Lea used to run in, thousands of miles away. The kind of evil people use to haunt their children at night.

And he’s holding Isa’s gun. 

The bastard _shot_ him with _Isa’s_ gun.

And now his blood’s all over Isa’s hands, because he’s trying his damndest to staunch the bleeding. 

The irony is almost enough to make Lea laugh, but he figures that will jostle him too much. He settles instead for a lopsided grin, his head swimming. “What an honour, Isa. Baldy wants us alive.”

“Be quiet, Lea,” Isa hisses, and even bordering on delirious, Lea can hear the panic dripping from his voice. He wants to tell him to smarten up, that they can’t show weakness to a man like this, but his tongue feels like cotton in his mouth already. He’s losing far too much blood to be useful, a thought that should strike him with more fear than it does. “Why us?”

“Not both—just you,” Xehanort drawls. “Vexen singled _you_ out as the right candidate, although your husband had promise, too.”

Something flares in Lea’s chest at the word. _Husband._ He’s almost glad the bastard hasn’t done his homework or looked past their cover story. If his lights flicker out in this creepy operating room, being known as Isa’s husband isn’t too bad of a way to go. 

“A candidate for _what_ ,” Isa narrows his eyes, and Lea leans against the base beneath the operating table, hoping the cool touch of metal will ease the fire in his brain, in his skin, in his _leg_. _Fuck_ , does his leg hurt. 

He glances down as Baldy chatters away about _perfect soldiers_ and _brainwashing drugs_ , but it’s all so confusing to Lea. There’s too many words and he doesn’t like the grating tone of Baldy’s voice as it scrapes around sentences, so instead he watches the pool of blood inch away from them in a concerning arc. 

_I’ve stained Isa’s suit pants_ , Lea thinks miserably. 

And he’d looked _so_ damn good in that suit tonight. He’s looked so damn good this _whole_ mission, and Lea’s spent far too many hours thinking about kissing him. He’s thinking about kissing him right now, honestly, and wonders idly if Baldy would particularly mind his evil monologue being interrupted for a very important declaration of love. 

Only it’s a loud bang down the hall that interrupts him instead, and Isa seizes the split second opportunity by launching himself at the other man. They topple to the ground in a mess of raised voices and limbs, and Isa’s gun clatters across the floor and away from them as they scuffle. 

Lea reaches for it, but nearly topples over himself when he realizes it’s outside of his range. Instead, he presses both hands over the seeping wound on his leg, biting at his lower lip when pain flashes across his synapses again. There’s another bang, this time closer, and Lea’s gaze whips up to see the door swinging wildly and Isa getting to his feet with haste.

Green eyes find him, worry glittering fiercely under the fluorescent lights, and Lea shakes his head. 

“Go,” he breathes out, blinking away the burn in his eyes. “You have to catch him, Isa!”

“But you—”

“I’ll be fine!” Lea urges, and he swallows the _I love you_ clogging his throat. After all, he’s waited a decade, what’s a little bit longer?

(If he makes it out of here, maybe he’ll finally deserve to say it.)

Isa looks like he wants to protest, fear and concern wrinkling the scar on his face, but then he’s gone, door swinging loudly behind him. Lea breathes out, something heavy and wet in his lungs. His vision’s blurring; everything losing it’s shape and colours melting together.

Lea can feel himself fall backwards, a weightless sort of free fall that drags him down like an anchor, but he never feels the kiss of cold tile bloom at the back of his skull. He has just enough sense to see the bright, blurry flashes of pink and yellow enter the room before the lights dim.

The last word he hears is a high, panicked _Axel_ before everything goes dark. 

* * *

Ambulance lights are absolutely the _worst_ invention, Lea decides not long after he’s come to. Especially at night, when they’re basically lighthouse beacons in the dark. He squints to see the two figures in front of him properly, left hand holding his right wrist, just above the IV needle.

The _second_ worst invention?

Undercover CIA agents.

Which, it turns out, Marluxia and Larxene are. 

(This is only the first piece of information about them he discovers upon waking. The second, is that they’re the backup Ventus was able to call for, because _of course_ the Bureau was made aware that the Agency had operatives in the field, and _of course_ they hadn’t thought to tell him nor Isa.)

Lauriam and Elrena. 

Lea glances between them as they chatter back and forth, trying to fit their new—old?—names to the faces he’s known for a handful of hard years, under titles and professions that had been carefully crafted lies. 

(He tries not to think about whether their friendship had been a lie, too.)

“Sorry, Lea,” Mar—Lauriam says, his smile gentle and apologetic, like he knows what Lea’s thinking. It feels strange to hear his real name come out of the other man’s mouth, but somehow comforting. Like an olive branch. 

“Criminal _consultant…_ ” Elrena sounds like she’s trying out the words on her tongue, or dragging them through molasses. “Who’da thought you’d go straight, huh?”

Lauriam snorts, and Lea shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant. “It’s my genuine goal in life to keep surprising you, Larx.” The positively gleeful grin on her lips tells Lea it hadn’t all been an act, at least. 

“No hard feelings, yeah?” She asks, her fingers drumming none too gently along his shin. He winces, his thigh barking in protest, and he rolls his eyes when hers sparkle with mischief.

“Whatever,” he huffs, and they walk away. 

Ventus, who has been standing at the edge of the ambulance waiting patiently, smiles politely as he swoops in to take their place. His hands are folded behind his back, and there’s a warm twinkle in his eyes. “Congratulations are in order.”

“For what, not dying?” Lea snorts, and sees the corner of the other man’s lips twitch. 

“For your hard work on the mission, dork.” Ventus tosses a thumb over his shoulder, undoubtedly at someone Lea is avoiding looking at, and smiles for real. “Agent Lyall wouldn’t have been able to catch Xehanort if not for you.”

Lea’s laugh is dry and humourless as he motions to the thick wrap of white bandages around his left thigh. “All I did was get shot, but sure.”

It’s a distraction from the hurt nestled painfully in his chest—the pang of loneliness and uncertainty that digs deeper with every minute that ticks by without Isa coming to check on him. Last he saw, the other man was across the resort parking lot with Director Aqua, who’d accompanied Ventus here. 

“We both know you did a lot more than that for him.” Ventus’ eyes soften, the blue of them turning fond. His voice is quiet, nearly a whisper as he leans a little closer, stepping into Lea’s space. “It’ll help, y’know? Take some time off your sentence?”

“Yeah, yeah—quit stalling and put it on already,” Lea says, waving at his good ankle with a dismissive gesture. Ventus’ face pinches a little, but he pulls the tracker anklet from where he’d been holding it at his back. As if that would somehow shelter Lea’s pride.

Carefully, Ventus wraps it around his ankle and as it snaps shut, the green light on the front flickers to life, letting out one good beep to signal it’s functional. Sadness washes over him like the tide as reality settles back in, his vacation really, truly over. 

Lea’s tone softens, and he fiddles with the hem of his jacket sleeve. “Thanks for waiting until everyone was gone, Ven. And for, y’know, not letting Aqua do it this time.”

Ventus’ laugh is a cool spring breezes as it blows over him, rustling strands of hair that have fallen loose from his bun. “She means well.”

Lea snorts, wincing when the move jostles his injury a little. “Can’t say she’s my biggest fan.”

“Well, you _did_ try to kill her once,” Ventus points out. 

“I tried to kill _all_ of you once.” Guilt peppers every word, toppings to a dish full of regret that stews every day in Lea’s stomach.

Ventus’ lips curve into a grin, and he shrugs dramatically. “Water under the bridge, really. We still like you.”

The words hit harder than he likely intends them to. Lea falls quiet as they settle in his chest, nestled amongst the vines that have lived there since he was young. Self-inflicted scars of a teenager who hadn’t realized how much he had to lose when he’d packed his things and disappeared into the night, starting down the path that had made him Axel. A path he was still slowly walking back, little by little every day, secretly hopeful that green eyes and blue hair would still be there waiting for him on the other side.

He knows his smile lacks it’s usual cheer when he speaks again, voice low and quiet. “At least some of you do.”

Ventus touch is gentle, a hesitant press of fingers against his wrist, just inches from the bandage covering his scalpel wound. Lea doesn’t look up, far too afraid to see sympathy, or something worse written clearly across Ventus’ face. 

“He _does_ like you, you know.” Lea’s laugh is derisive, a short and dismissive thing pitched high in his throat. Ventus squeezes his wrist tighter. “Seriously, Lea. I don’t know how you walk away from this trip without seeing that. Different choices might’ve driven the two of you apart over the years, but… it never changed what I saw between you two as kids.”

This time, Lea _does_ look up, a startled breath catching in his throat. It isn’t sympathy he finds looking back, but rather something fond and understanding. “He’s never been that good with expressing his feelings, you know that. And after you left, well—it’s not like he had very many opportunities to change that. So just… give him some time, okay? He’s got like, _at least_ one more gay crisis in him before he’s ready to talk it out.”

It’s enough to make Lea laugh, to ease some of the tension coiled in his spine. It comes out a wet sort of cough that has the tangled mess around his heart loosening just a little. Ventus taps him on the shoulder, careful not to jostle him too much. 

“Thanks, Ven.”

“Always, Lea.”

* * *

Benched because of his injury, Lea spends the next six days in the hospital after he’s airlifted home. Ventus visits three times—once to fill out his CI paperwork, something they’re both well aware Isa should be doing as his _actual_ handler, and twice with a disgruntled Vanitas in tow. 

(He lets Lea bum a smoke off him each visit and looks the other way when he cracks his room window to light it, so Lea figures he’s not all bad. The pull of nicotine helps settle some of the nerves running along Lea’s veins like wildfire, an anxious energy that he can’t burn off when trapped in his bed.)

Roxas and Xion come by the other days, bringing card games and laughter and the kind of cheer that instantly lifts Lea’s spirits. They don’t talk about work at all, which he’s sort of grateful for, but it also leaves him to wonder just how things are going. He knows Xehanort and Vexen were arrested, since he saw them being led away from his ambulance seat, but the fate of the others—those twins Xehanort had called his sons—remains a mystery to him.

A caveat of being just a criminal consultant, he laments.

By his final day in the hospital, when Naminé shows up to drive him home and offers to stop at his favourite takeout place on the way to his apartment, Lea’s pretty convinced Director Aqua actually _pities_ him given how much time she’s allowed her team of agents to have with him. Optimistically, he hopes it also means he’s earned as many brownie points saving Isa’s life as Ventus seemed to imply.

He spends a couple days alone at home after that. Resting, binge-watching procedural dramas just to laugh at their inaccuracies, collecting enough take-out containers to make up for the college life he never had— 

—and thinking about Isa. Always, _always_ thinking about Isa.

A chronic condition Lea has suffered from nearly his whole life, only heightened and made worse by the events of their undercover mission together.

He thinks about Isa’s smile under the gentle glow of sunset, the ocean’s reflection in the teal of his eyes, the way colour had bloomed in his cheeks with every gentle, affectionate breath around the word _babe_ . He thinks about waking up with his nose pressed to Isa’s neck, about how easy and natural it had felt to take his hand walking through the resort, how Isa had let him hang off of him like when they’d been kids. He thinks about almost kissing him, _twice_. 

(He tries not to think about blood dripping from a knife in his hands and along the angled slope of Isa’s nose, or what it felt like to stare down the barrel of Isa’s gun, betrayal a dangerous gleam in the teal of his eyes. He tries not to think about the vitriol they’d thrown at one another, anger twisting years of questions into accusations, into bitter, hateful words. 

He tries not to think about how he’s not sure if one cancels out the other. How the past and present are jagged pieces that don’t fit together properly.)

Lea turns off the TV. Maybe he should’ve settled for romcoms instead of thrillers that drag the skeletons out of the sunken grave he buried in an ocean of memories. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts and poetic metaphors from his mind, and tosses the remote onto the couch beside him. With a heavy sigh, he gathers his styrofoam container and pushes himself to his feet with one crutch.

There’s a sharp protest from his thigh, but he ignores it and hobbles to the kitchen to throw out the remains of his lunch.

He’s halfway there when there’s a knock at the door. Lea pauses, frowning.

He isn’t expecting anyone. Considering the Bureau pays for this apartment, there’s very few people it could be and when Director Aqua had called to check in on him, she’d made it clear that the team would be busy the next few days. That he’d be on his own unless there was an emergency. 

There’s a ping from somewhere on the couch, where his phone is buried between the cushions. Lea debates going back for it, but knows the door is closer. He tosses his container into the trash, readjusts his grip on his crutches, and limps over.

He swings the door open, and his breath catches in his throat.

Isa’s standing there in grey jeans— _jeans—_ and a deep blue sweater, one hand raised like he’d been poised to knock again. He’s breathing heavily and his cheeks are flushed with signs of a sprint, and both things highlight the brightness of his eyes and the scar on his face. 

Lea’s heart catapults squarely into his throat, but he still manages a weak smile and a teasing lilt to his voice; “Did—Did you _run_ here?”

“I was at home, thinking,” Isa starts, pausing on a deep inhale, “and just sort of—I had to get out, clear my head. So I went for a walk but it—it just made me think _more_ , and—and next thing I knew, I was here.”

He pauses again, swallowing words in his throat. Lea’s pulse flutters, and quietly, gently, like he’s afraid of speaking too loudly and shattering the fragile honesty suspended from a wire between them, he asks, “Do you wanna come in?”

Isa nods, a grateful sigh loosening his shoulders. Lea turns away with a tilt of his head, swinging himself into the kitchen, leaving the other man to close the door behind them.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, hobbling over to the cupboard and pulling a glass off the shelf to fill with water. “Recovery’s a bitch, and all that.”

He slides the glass over the counter to Isa, who takes it without question, downing it with uncharacteristic desperation. It hits the countertop with a loud _clunk_ , and Isa wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Lea ignores the way something in his gut twists at the sight, and inhales, holding a dozen different opening lines on his tongue. He doesn’t know where to start, but he knows it isn’t with his usual humour. He’s been using jokes to cover real feelings his whole life, and this once—just this once—he needs to be taken seriously. Something that’s easier said than done with tension building in his chest, water in a boiling kettle. 

He opens his mouth at approximately the same time as Isa.

“Look, I—

“I’m sorry—”

There’s an audible _clack_ as his teeth slam together—Isa’s too. Laughter bubbles forth in Lea’s throat, likewise shaking Isa’s shoulders, and the elastic tension snaps, water bursting from a broken dam. 

Isa recovers first, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you in the hospital. Taking down a criminal organization warrants a lot of paperwork and even more questions, apparently. And, honestly, I needed time to…”

“Think?” Lea offers, and the warmth of Isa’s smile softens, guilt dimpling one cheek. “It’s okay, Isa. I get it.”

“You don’t,” the other man shakes his head, taking a step closer. The tap of his shoe on tile echoes in the small kitchen, resonating through Lea’s chest like the smallest note of hope. “This is—this mission was _a lot_ , in many ways, and I—”

He takes a deep breath, lips pressing together tightly as Lea watches him seemingly struggle with words. For someone who’s always been direct and to the point, it’s strange. Knowing that he’s the cause? Well, Lea doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.

But he knows how he feels about _Isa_ , who’s finally here, finally listening, finally on the cusp of something that feels remarkably like a confession.

(Or a let down, but Lea tries not to think about that.)

Instead, he takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and starts talking. “When we were kids, I used to say I’d follow you anywhere, that I wanted to do whatever you did. I remember it would make you _so_ angry that your nose would wrinkle and your cheeks would flush, and you’d lecture me about having an opinion of my own.”

“But that was the thing, see—I did. My opinion was that I wanted those things because they made me happy. Because _you_ made me happy.” His hands are trembling a little, and he pauses just long enough to subtly wipe the sweat on his sweater before he continues, mouth running a marathon while his heart jackhammers in his chest. “And I know—I know I fucked that up all. I left, and I got into some stupid, illegal shit, and we spent more years fighting each other than we did being best friends, and I _hate_ that. I hate that I did that to us. So when Aqua offered me a get out of jail free card—when she dangled you on a wire in some fancy restaurant like cheese in a mousetrap, and asked me to jump—do you know why I asked how high?” 

Isa’s eyes glitter under the kitchen lights, and there’s a hard set to his jaw that tells Lea he’s clenched it shut with purpose, fighting the urge to speak, giving Lea the floor he obviously came here searching for. So the redhead presses on, pulse electric in his veins, feeling like there’s a forest fire in his chest, setting years of bottled thorns ablaze.

“Because no matter what I did, nothing ever came close to feeling that way again. Because I was hopeful, _desperate_ even, to crawl my way back to that. And I know I can be an idiot like, pretty much all the time,” Lea laughs, hesitant and bordering on wet, _relieved_ , when he sees the smallest tick to Isa’s lips, “but you still make me happy, Blue. You make a _really_ dull existence pretty fun, all things considered.”

He gives his anklet tracker a little jiggle, but the move’s lost on Isa, who hasn’t once taken his eyes off Lea’s face—or his motormouth—the entire time.

“Working with you, these last few months—it’s the freest I’ve ever felt.” Lea swallows, hard. He has to say it now, before he fumbles the whole thing and muddies his confession with more jailbird metaphors and ghosts from their past. “Isa, what I’m trying to say is—”

“I think I love you, Lea,” Isa says, and the words strike him harder than the bullet in his damn leg. They knock the air from his lungs, slamming through his chest like a bull in a china shop, throwing the ashes of remorse right out the window with every doubt, every fear, every regret holding him back. 

“ _Oh thank god_ ,” the words are barely a breath, a sharp inhale, before Lea’s in motion. His crutch clatters loudly to the ground, the pain in his thigh flaring loudly against the shifting weight, but his hands find Isa’s face by the exhale, and nothing else matters. Isa leans into the touch, stubble scratching against Lea’s thumb as he drags it gently, reverently, over Isa’s cheek, and his knees nearly buckle. Somehow, he finds his voice again to ask; “Can I kiss you?”

Warmth radiates from Isa’s smirk, from the adoration in his eyes, and the lightest breath ghosts over Lea’s collarbone as the other man chuckles. It’s a deep rumble that shakes his chest, and Lea’s new favourite sound, right next to his name on Isa’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

This time, when the air punches out of his lungs, it’s against the sweetness of Isa’s mouth. 

When his knees threaten to give out, it’s Isa that remains a pillar, a crutch, his hands sliding around Lea’s waist to keep him steady and anchored. 

And when his heart swells with a love song, a symphony building in his chest with every unspoken feeling and nearly two decades of adoration for the other man, he feels the joy, the relief, the last verse of _finally, yours_ breathed back into him through Isa’s kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyall — The surname "Lyall" is found early in Scotland and was derived from the Old Norse given name "Liulfr" meaning Wolf.  
> Solis — Spanish name derived from the Latin sol, literally meaning sun.
> 
> Waves a handly vaguely over their AU history. Surprise! He's not actually a secret agent. If anyone's seen White Collar, that's where the inspiration for the FBI Agent/Criminal Consultant thing comes from lol 
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/_eliestarr), and I hope ya'll enjoyed ♥


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